The Times and Life of Lucas Bishop
by kataract52
Summary: Displeased with Marvel's version, I am attempting my own. How did a time-traveling cop end up as the ultimate traitor? And how will he redeem himself?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own.

**Author's Notes: **Holy cow! For a character I didn't think was interesting, I sure had a lot to say! Actually, this started out as a story about Witness, but the more I dove into his character, the more I realized he's best when not in the direct spotlight. This story is slightly AU, like everything I write, but overall it's the Bishop you know and love! Spoiler alert: Marvel lost their damn mind when they tried to peg straight-and-narrow Bishop as a baby-killer, so there will be none of that here. Like I said, it's the man we know and love. Please R/R!

**The Times and Life of Lucas Bishop**

Only Heaven knew why he took the children. He could've done anything with them. In a broken world, thrown into war time and again until the whole of the planet knew nothing else, the Witness sat apart. He was God, and yes, God was mad. He spoke in riddles, alluding to invisible and secret things that had been abandoned for their vanity. It must've worn on his heart, to care for things no longer living. Perhaps that was the reason he adopted the children – a group of half-starved, timid orphans – to reclaim the title "father". His own children were long dead.

Who wasn't?

Trying to revive ghosts through memory had driven him insane; as it would all who followed him. It stood to reason, then, that the mind belonged firmly planted in the present. But the present was the future, which looked like the past.

The earth was dried clay, yielding no flora and holding no clean water. The air was acidic from heightened levels of carbon-monoxide. The sun was the only visible heaven-body, although the edges were obscured by clouds that never faded, and no matter where it presided, its heat always lingered. Buildings dotted the horizon, but they housed only debris. The builders had long-since left.

In the beginning, Bishop haunted those buildings, looking for anything to sustain his life. Then he searched for hope – some sort of communication device, other survivors, anything. He found nothing. Not even wild creatures; not even _roaches_. Wherever he was, he was alone. A vast and endless loneliness swallowed him, beckoning him back to his childhood days when he would have died for two loving arms. At least then, he'd had the company of his baby sister, and later, he had the Witness. That stale-hearted old man never loved Bishop, but he was company at any rate. The longer Bishop was alone, the more the hinges of his mind fractured and buckled. He was certain he heard echoes of Shard's laughter and car tires. Ghost cities became his hellish labyrinths, luring him further and further after things that weren't there. Finally, he abandoned the cities, too. At least in the open, he could _see_ proof of his insanity. Thus far, his hallucinations proved only auditory.

Without books or pictures or purpose, he grew very restless. Time should've become more precious to him, since he obviously didn't have much left, but the boredom graded his nerves nevertheless. So he passed it in reflection, verbally recalling memories. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he got angry; mostly he knew regret. If anyone could observe him thusly, they would surely think him mad. Occasionally, he saw outside himself: the way others would. It compounded his frustration and sorrow, and he fled further into the past.

_Age 3_

His branding was his earliest memory. When he was born, he was tested, as all children were, for the X gene. He was a confirmed mutant and given a date eighteen months later to receive his mark. By that time, his mother had already given birth to a daughter, who was also a confirmed mutant. Lucas's appointment with fate was postponed another eighteen months, so that he and his baby sister could be marked on the same day. The circumstances were highly unusual. Looking back many years later, he would still question the logic behind that decision.

His sister, Layla, was too young to remember the event, but Lucas recalled everything. Before he was branded, he thought the others had been _born_ marked. He thought he wasn't a mutant because he hadn't the mark, and it gave him hope that he might leave the camp one day. At three years old, he hadn't given much thought to where he'd go or if he'd take his family with him. Perhaps he thought his parents _chose_ to live here and deserved to be miserable… He only knew that not everyone in the world lived in a shanty and went hungry day after day. He knew life beyond those enormous steel gates _had_ to be better.

One morning his parents took their children to the facility. He remembered the dusty road beneath his frayed boots, the look of sorrow from neighbors as they passed, and his mother's clammy hand gripping his. He didn't understand. They'd been to the facility many times. The paperwork that the government wanted was infinite, and if anything wasn't completed, they'd come in the night and abduct the entire family. Lucas had never seen it happen, but he'd heard stories. Late at night, when his parents thought he was asleep, they'd exchange stories about a family across the compound that had disappeared. He would reach across his narrow cot to Layla and pull her close so no one could take her. Sometimes he'd even cover her ears so she wouldn't wake up and hear the stories, but she slept like a log. He only _wished_ he could sleep as soundly as she did. After that trip to the facility, he'd sleep even worse.

The nurse who greeted them advised his parents to wait in another room "because it's always worse for the mothers". They never had been brave enough to face unpleasant things, and agreed it to. Lucas vividly remembered watching them sit in comfortable chairs while another nurse led Layla and him away. He felt so _betrayed_.

"We're going to mark you and your little sister," the doctor said, pulling his gloves on. "You're a brave little man, so we'll do you first. You can show your sister it's not so bad."

But it was bad.

Four nurses held him down as the drill made contact with the flesh on his face. The needles ripped away at flesh, burning and making him bleed. He didn't want to frighten his baby sister, but the tears came violently. He screamed and tried to pull away. Through the struggles and pauses, the man completed his task. Afterwards, Lucas was sore and exhausted, but he would've done it again to spare Layla. She didn't try to be brave at all, and Lucas fought again, even harder than he had for himself. He threw his body like a torpedo, slamming into nurses, against the doctor, and screaming for his parents. They heard him and never came. She was his baby sister, and despite his efforts to protect her, they had hurt her. In his tender heart, he never loved them again.

_Age 4_

Gelatin was a rare treat, but not so rare that Lucas didn't know how it should taste. Something was wrong. When he refused to eat it, his mother backhanded him so hard that he fell down. He still remembered lying on the ground, looking up at her in disbelief. He waited for an apology that never came. Instead, his father held him while his mother forced the dessert down his throat.

He slept hard that night, like Layla, and woke up disoriented.

They were gone, and they'd taken everything with them… Except their children.

Lucas and Layla wandered the shanty round and round, and then the neighborhood – hand in terrified hand. They would never know what became of their parents. Were they taken? Had they managed an escape? Or were they apprehended at the gates and executed? Mostly importantly, how could they leave their children behind? Orphans didn't exist in the compound because they _couldn't_. Without a guardian, the children would be taken for test subjects. They could not purchase rations. Someone stronger would steal their shanty and, if they let the children stay, would turn them into slaves. They would be beaten and starved and tormented with false hopes. How could any parent condemn their children to such a fate?

Bishop's worst fears never materialized. The young pair weren't enslaved following their abandonment. For once, fortune smiled on them.

An elderly woman took them in and told them to call her Grandmother. She was kind and doting as their parents had never been. She gave them something his parents never could.

Hope.

Unable to complete simple tasks, she needed Lucas and Layla's physical abilities, which made them useful. She made him feel _good_ about who he was. Her handicap never encouraged pity, and despite her dependency, she held them to high standards. They were expected to be clean, compassionate, and courteous at all times.

"It does not matter how others live," she would say, "You are held accountable to your _conscience_, not the world."

In a world that had lost all sense, Grandmother was their anchor. The only folly she encouraged was her fairy tales: stories about people so brave and powerful they couldn't possibly be real. The X-Men. They were legends, like King Arthur and Hercules. He was sure they were based on something factual, but the stories had been folded and re-opened too often to hold together. The pages of their history had broken into little squares, which were reassembled by memory or leisure. When Grandmother swore they were real because she'd seen them herself, he _knew_ she was lying. Still, he understood her purpose. These gods held themselves to impossibly high standards and were immortalized in folk lore. If Lucas wished to be immortal, he must be set himself apart, too.

She had other stories, too: tales about things like trees, which no longer existed, and blue seas, which Lucas had never seen. She talked about her time in Kenya, when she'd lie in the open fields unafraid, and make a game out of the white, full clouds drifting over the earth. These things bored Lucas, but her war stories fascinated him.

Like anyone scarred by things beyond their control, he was obsessed with discovering how and why mutants were forced to be born and die in camps under human control. The map was complicated. Many roads were involved in the ultimate destination, but they intersected and overlapped so that one's existence was often dependent upon another's. The travelers matter, too. If just a few walked the path, it mightn't have mattered. After all, there were many dead ends that might've led somewhere else. But people were herd animals by nature. They preferred to follow and stay together. If someone else had been at the helm, history might've been re-directed. The possibilities boggled his young mind.

By the time he was age seven and his grandmother died, he was a man.

_Age 9_

Someone pounded furiously on the door. By now, he knew the difference in an official's knock, a friendly knock and an unfriendly knock. This was definitely an unfriendly one. He grabbed his weapon – a discarded fire poker – and shouted back, "If you know what's good for you, you'll go!"

Sadly, his voice still hadn't taken on the deep grumble of a man's, and the door was kicked open. Six people – four men and two women – entered like locus. They were the Yazu gang, one of the underdogs in the latest shanty war. It was no wonder that they were stealing from _orphans_. He struck one in the ribs, but the others quickly grabbed him. He got in some good hits, but that only made them stronger. Little Layla threw herself into the frenzy, too, but she was too slight to make a difference. While they punched, kicked and cut Lucas, they were content to merely shove Layla away. She was wearing _herself_ out.

"What's going on?" a man shouted from outside.

Two X.S.E. officials entered the house and aimed their weapons at the group indiscriminately. Too late, they realized they were outnumbered, but kept up bravado. The gang could've killed them and left their bodies in the street. No one would ever see anything.

"Drop your weapons!" the other official demanded.

The gang went into a panic. Lucas could feel it coming even before they acted. They knew they would be apprehended, brought in for investigation, and probably never seen again. Things weren't as severe as they'd been five years ago, but they were still tense. The outside government was content to let the camps govern themselves now, and the X.S.E. (Xavier's Student Enforcers) had been formed in response. Lucas feared them because everyone did – to him, they were just the top gang. But things changed that day.

"Get real!" one of the gangsters shouted, snatching Layla by her slender neck. It nearly snapped. He placed a make-shift blade to her jugular.

"Let her go!" the official said. "Hurt her, and you will NEVER leave here!"

Lucas felt a surge of gratitude in his chest. No one had ever – _ever_ stood up for them before. In that moment, he loved them as much as he loved his sister. These two strangers were his clan; he belonged with them, undoubtedly. Rushing towards the man holding Layla, he threw his weight on the man's shoulders. He stumbled forward, dropping his hostage. Lucas jumped away and a loud, bright explosion knocked the man backwards. A black crater in his chest smoked. His eyes, wide and brown, seemed to follow Lucas. The officers fired at the other gangsters, who were rushing towards them. Maybe they were mounting an attack, maybe it was vengeance, or maybe they were just trying to escape. It didn't matter. In mere seconds, they were all dead. Lucas had never been so happy.

"Nobody's gonna mess with us now!" he told his sister.

"Not so quick, kid," the officer said. "This isn't the last of the Yazu… When they find out what happened, they'll probably come after you… Do you have anywhere to go for a little while? Just until things quiet down?"

"No," he said truthfully. "Could we go with you?"

"Look… The X.S.E. is no place for children…"

"But I'm strong! You saw me take on that guy!"

"And now he's _dead_. If you wanna join the X.S.E. one day, you need to know that the bad guys are _anyone_ who takes a life."

Lucas couldn't believe there was power in mercy, but he wanted to believe it. It was an ideal he _wanted_ to fight for.

"Hey," the other officer said, "What about the Witness? He's got a thing for orphans… Maybe he'll take them in."

…

_Present_

Bishop was near what used to be Los Angeles. He walked parallel to the former city, between the former Pacific Ocean and the ancient ruins. It was getting dark and he considered settling down for the night. "Night" in the present was forty-eight hours and seventeen minutes long, which was either evidence of the planet being off-balance or – more likely – it's rotation had slowed significantly. That accounted for many environmental issues, actually. His body still knew the correct time. Instinctively, he awoke at six a.m. every day. He was the only steady element on this planet now. Suddenly, the wind changed directions and he heard a distant howl. A sandstorm was coming. He couldn't see it coming yet, but he could feel the sand molecules pulling towards the vacuum that would soon blast his way.

He hurried towards an exposed drainage ditch and crawled inside the cement cylinder. He hoped the approaching storm wouldn't bury him alive, and then laughed bitterly.

_Hope_.

If he'd never known it, he wouldn't miss it so much. What did he hope for, anyway? Rescue? Survival? For how long? Death by suffocation would be quicker and less painful than death by exposure. Could he hope for death?

He rested his back on the cement curve, willing his mind into tranquility.

Music.

Yes, he could hear it. The soft droplets of piano keys when struck… The glory of harmony: notes uplifting each other… And then he could _feel_ it – his heart softening and his muscles relaxing. A string quartet joined in, flirty violins and grounded bass. And then his mind was far away, to the first time he'd heard the piano sonata.

…

_Age 9_

"It's so _beautiful_."

"Don't _touch_ it."

"She ain't gonna break it, pup."

The siblings turned silently to their new caretaker, who'd been watching them. His name was LeBeau, but everyone called him The Witness. He was the most powerful man in North America, one of the most powerful men in the world. If he'd wanted to be called Jesus of Nazareth, he would have it so. Likewise, he assigned codenames to his orphans. Lucas was Bishop and Layla was Shard. The children didn't mind, but they didn't have much choice. They'd suffered worse for less. Under his care, they had luxuries they'd never dreamed of… Soft, warm beds, red meat and milk, security and friends…

They rarely saw their patron. He traveled a lot and lived in a separate part of the building: one they weren't allowed to enter. When he visited, he came to teach them things that didn't make much sense: observation, memorization and how to decipher codes. He was mad and everyone knew it. Only the girls had the patience for him, and he rewarded them with praise and rewards. Shard was one of his favorites. When he visited, he liked to brush her hair and ask her about Grandmother. She must've said or done something to really touch his twisted heart because one night, he invited her to his suite for dinner. She asked if her brother could come and he consented.

Bishop wouldn't want to be alone with him, either; the Witness made his skin crawl.

But the man was entirely different in private. He shed his tattered rags for a dark suit in a style that was popular a hundred years ago and combed his usually matted hair. The air smelled like things that made Bishop's stomach grumble and sounded like angels' laughter. Later, he would learn that sound was true music. The dining room sported objects Bishop had only ever heard of – a table, silverware, china plates, salt and pepper… It was positively archaic. At least the fire was a hologram, but wood for _burning_ was a luxury even the Witness couldn't afford.

"Good evening, children… Would you care to sit?"

Shard happily took the soft chair closest to him, which made Bishop happy, too. However, he wasn't exempt from the Witness's all-seeing gaze.

"Why d'you eat dat way, Bishop?"

Bishop suddenly stopped eating and looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Y' hunch over your plate, stick out yer elbows like someone's gonna take it, and shovel it down quick as y' can… Now, look at yer sister. She's talkin', eatin' when I'm talkin' back, pretty as a lamb."

Bishop blinked and then went back to shoveling his food. He suspected he was about to be sent away.

The Witness clicked his teeth. "If y' were one a' _m'_ kids, you'd get popped for puttin' y' elbows on de table."

Shard discreetly pulled her elbows from the table and asked, "You had kids?"

"_Oui, petite_. I had many."

"Where are they now?" she asked sweetly.

"Dead."

"Are you sure?"

Bishop paused for a moment, certain the man would strike out at her for pushing a sensitive subject. Instead, he answered, "_Oui_. I'm sure."

"Because my parents thought Bish and I were dead, but we weren't, and they _left_ us."

The room grew very quiet, and their patron took a long time wiping his mouth on his napkin. Finally, he said softly, "M' parents left me, too, _chere_. I would never do dat."

His eyes were brimming with unspoken fondness, and Shard beamed back at him as if he'd done something heroic. For the first time in his young life, Bishop felt the sharp stab of jealousy. He didn't care about wealth or power; he'd done without those things long enough to know he could live without them. He didn't care about the truly beautiful things the Witness had access to – like music and portraits, either. All he cared about, all he'd ever cared about, was his sister. She was the only one in the whole world that Bishop had ever loved, and all her life, she'd only ever loved _him_. But that was because she'd only ever had _him_ to love. Given the choice, she could've loved everyone as much as she loved him. And that hurt.

Over the next four years, Bishop and Shard continued to live under the Witness's care. The other children – Jinx, Shackle, Knives and Link – grew to be their brothers-in-arms. They drew the secrets of life from each other's minds: history, warfare, politics, and occasionally, sex. Mostly, they wondered at their role in the Witness's plans. Even Shard, who was his favorite, knew almost nothing about him.

They did learn some things about him. He was called 'The Witness' because he was the last person to see the X-Men alive. 'I alone have escaped to tell thee', was his motto. Publically, he was the face of the corporation that ruled America, but privately, he funded multiple crime syndicates. Once Bishop learned this, all the other pieces seemed to fall together. He took in orphans because they had nowhere else to go. He groomed them into his image and then placed them at the head of these crime organizations, knowing he could trust them. That's why he wanted them to be able to fight blind-folded, dis- and reassemble any weapon, and still appear educated and polite. He thought his goodwill would enslave them forever, but Lucas Bishop was no man's slave.

_Age 13_

"Bishop, please don't do this!" Jinx pleaded, tugging his hand.

Clever Jinx wasn't as slender and frail as Shard, but she wasn't strong enough to stop him, either. When she found out what he was going to do, she followed him all the way to the Witness's floor. But any further, and she knew she'd be his accomplice. She watched him pull away with big, sad eyes.

"Please, Bish! Think about _Shard_!"

But he was.

A rumor had come his way that the Witness had special plans for his sister. Their private dinners were a tradition now, and although he no longer chaperoned, he was confident Shard told him everything. Either she knew nothing of his plans, or she was on board with them… No, he couldn't believe that. She would never abandon him. She was all he had. And she knew that… right?

The Witness knew how to divide and conquer – he couldn't doubt his sister for a moment.

With an elevator lift and twenty steps, Bishop was inside the Witness's private suit. The hall hummed with steady, all-showing lights, but his room was deadly silent. The old man was nowhere to be seen. At first, he was too afraid to exhale. But if that batty old coot knew he was here, wouldn't he stop him? What was he waiting for? This was the only chance he would get to solve this puzzle, and it wouldn't last forever.

With equally quiet feet, he dared to cross the threshold. A leather-bond book lay beside his chair near the fireplace. A diary? His trembling hands opened the cover. It might've been his private reflections, but nothing was written in words. He'd sketched faces… All of them beautiful, but none of them familiar. He'd drawn out maps, too, and then there were the names of the legendary X-Men: Nightcrawler, Colossus, Storm and Rogue.

What was his connection?

Bishop closed the book, desperate to dig around for more. But if he disturbed too much, the Witness would surely know he'd been spied on. He didn't want to accidently uncover some global conspiracy; he only wanted to know Shard was still safe.

He heard a soft breath pass through careless lips. In the adjacent room, the Witness slept. Yes, he was sure of it now. For all his messages about "constant vigilance", he'd gone rather soft. Or maybe he thought his disciplines blindly loyal. In this world, _no one_ was ever safe.

Bishop pulled his weapon to eye-level and stepped carefully into the dark, silent room. He could see the man sleeping through the shadows, his breathing deep and sure. The bed was enormous and inviting: a fine place for an old man to die. Standing at the foot with his barrel dead-set, he finally turned the safety off. The inaudible shift synchronized with the lifting of his eye lids. Those red-on-black eyes bore into his. No, don't let him maintain eye contact - that was how he deceived his prey.

"Are you for real?" Bishop growled, his voice menacing.

"'Fraid y' read m' thoughts."

Bishop's vision clouded over, so he focused his attention on _sensing_ his patron's powers. He was still on the bed, under his gun.

"Are you planning to adopt Shard?"

"Dat bothers you, does it? It doesn't change anything."

His finger found the trigger. "Doesn't _change_ anything? You adopt her, that makes you her _family_. No different from _me_. When you die, she'll inherit your empire. You think she'd accept it? _I_ know what you are! Thief! _Assassin!_ She's too _good_ for you!"

The Witness gave a rare, spine-chilling smile. "Like I said… It doesn't _change_ anything."

Bishop should've killed him, but he would let him live so that he could do worse. He found his sister and told her they were leaving their gilded cage. She was reluctant, but complied in the end. He rushed her through a tearful good-bye to their friends, and then led her back to the compound where they'd grown up. At the time, he was certain she followed him out of love, but the seed of doubt planted by the Witness took root in his heart. She was so sweet and innocent – had she _really_ accepted that sinister old man? Bishop couldn't bring himself to use those words in front of her – "murderer", "traitor" – so he never asked. In time, he realized that she would've adored her adoptive father, and whatever he encumbered her with, she would be _safe_. More, her goodness outweighed his corruption. Bishop had been so certain he would turn her evil that he never considered _she_ might turn _him_ instead.

_Present_

Bishop awoke to darkness. The sand had indeed buried him, but thanks to his uncanny sense of time and space, he knew he only needed to dig himself out. So he did. When he broke the surface, he saw himself as a passerby would – a strong, desperate hand breaking from the ground like a zombie. He laughed, nearly choking on sand. Here he was, living like a vampire when everyone thought he was a good guy.

"Who thinks you're _good_?" he asked himself, pulling his headscarf off since the sun was still down.

Everyone who thought anything about him was long dead. Anyone who might still be a part of him had long ago followed their species into space. It brought him comfort to think some part of him would keep on living, even if they didn't know his name. It seemed impossible, but he still carried a part of that first fish that crawled from the sea. Millions of years ago, he'd been born a man… What did the human race look like now?

He could not accept extinction – for himself or his kind.

Brushing the sand from his clothes, he continued north.

_Age 14_

"That's _not_ the price we agreed upon," Bishop argued. "Why are you trying to cheat me?"

"You made me think you didn't have anything better," the man offered a toothless grin. "You didn't say nothin' about that pretty little sister of yours… So now the price has gone up. 'Course, I'd be willin' to _settle_ for an hour alone with her."

"She's _twelve_," he growled, his hands clenching into fists. Behind him, Shard gripped his shirt.

The trader's two lackeys circled them from behind, apparently sharing his disgusting lusts. Bishop wasn't the least afraid. On the contrary, rage fueled his courage. He might die today, but he would die on his feet. When the first one lunged towards them, he fell short on Bishop's blade. The second knocked the weapon from his hands, but was no match in hand-to-hand combat. His was making quick work of his ugly face when Shard let out a cry.

The trader had her.

"Here's the deal, boy… I can kill her and then kill you and _then_ rape her… Or I can rape her now, and when I'm done, you two can have the water and be on your way. What's it gonna be?"

"Luke," she pleaded, tears brimming in her beautiful, clear eyes. "A good soldier knows when to fight and when to regroup."

"That's right!" The toothless trader laughed, "Now be a good boy and wait outside!"

She shut her eyes, losing hope.

But the rage inside him couldn't be denied. He knew his sister was a virgin, and all the water in the world wasn't worth this! He thought about that X.S.E. officer who'd shot the man holding her hostage years ago. She hadn't survived _that_ to live this sort of life! Bishop didn't have a gun, but he still had the weight of his body, and it had proved weapon enough before. With a savage roar, he charged the man. But before he could reach them, the villain pulled a blade and placed it to Shard's back, intent on running her through. For a heartbeat, Bishop was certain his sister was about to die. A heartbeat was just long enough to spark something deep and primal inside of him. His mutant powers activated, and his body fired plasma blasts quicker and more powerful than any weapon. He didn't know where the strength came from, but it felt marvelous to unleash it. He felt almost _godly_ torturing this man thusly.

"Bishop! _Bishop_!" Shard shouted. "That's _enough_! Come on, let's get out of here!"

The rage subsided, taking with it his amazing powers.

Three men dead.

For one girl's virtue.

Not long after that incident, the mutant camps were closed, and all the inhabitants were thrown into a world they didn't understand and a world that didn't want them. Tensions between humans and mutants were at an all-time high. The X.S.E. was desperate for strong officers. So desperate, in fact, that the cadet academy accepted Bishop and Shard at just fifteen and thirteen years old. The reasoning was that most cadets take four years to finish training. By then, they would both be adults or close to the age of majority.

Bishop was certain that everything in his life had led to him becoming an officer. If his parents had never abandoned him, he would've never met Grandmother, who instilled strict morals. If she hadn't died, those gang members wouldn't have tried to steal her house. If those officers hadn't been there and sent him to the Witness, he and Shard would be dead. And if the Witness hadn't been so corrupt, Bishop wouldn't have clung so desperately to his standards. Those things had all been tragedies, but they'd led him down the path of destiny.

With some strong food and a physical regimen, the brother and sister pair excelled exponentially. Bishop seemed to never stop growing. He got taller and wider weekly until he was the tallest person at the academy. Likewise, Shard traded her fairy frame for an understated strength. She was like a willow tree – slender and flexible, but durable. When she struck, the mark was deeply felt. Their grades soared as well: something that would've made Grandmother proud. For Bishop, the passion for police work came naturally. He devoured every piece of information he could get. Shard had to work a little harder, but she succeeded just the same. _Her_ talent was the people-side of police work. Even though she couldn't interrogate or investigate during school, she was a natural detective. She smelled a lie before it was spoken, and her tender heart made people want to open up to her. They would've been a perfect team except family members weren't allowed to be on the same squad.

Just like any student, Bishop earned his share of enemies: Trevor Fitzroy being the greatest of them. Fitzroy was the spoiled son of an extremely wealthy, influential man. A lifetime of ease and luxury had made him hard and uncaring; everyone was a tool to be used for his own leverage and nothing more. Sometimes Bishop tried to find some good in him, but never could. In the end, he decided that since even Shard distrusted him, there wasn't a decent molecule to be found.

But for all his foes and trials, Bishop found friends more abundant. Malcolm and Randall were some of the truest friends he'd ever find.

_Age 17_

"I dunno… You reckon Razor likes me more than Icarus?" asked Malcolm.

Bishop couldn't resist rolling his eyes. Ever since he'd known Malcolm, the kid had been – Shard's words – "girl crazy". Rand used to be on Bishop's side, and it was easy to shut him down before his topic was fully discussed. But lately, even Rand had turned his eyes from the goal of making officer to the hopes of getting laid. Since the male to female ratio at the academy heavily favored the former, it was only a matter of time before one of them set their sights on Shard.

Thankfully, _she_ had more sense than Malcolm and Rand. She was still very focused on becoming an officer, and leading her own squad one day. The time for romance and possibly a family would come, but much further down the road. Before she could sensibly bring a child into this world, she needed to ensure it would have a better life than she'd had. Bishop was proud to call her "sister". His chances of graduating would be significantly lowered if he had to fight off her suitors.

"It's not Icarus you've gotta worry about. It's B over there."

Bishop's neck burned and he turned to Rand with a warning stare.

The older man didn't flinch. "The girls think he's _mysterious_, and you know how birds love a good puzzle…"

"Stop," he said.

Rand continued. "They think that below that tough exterior, he's a big teddy bear, and they all want to be the one to bring out that side of him. 'He just needs a good woman', they say."

"What he _needs_ is a good lay," Malcolm muttered.

"I've heard 'm talking about you in the hallways, Bish," said Rand, "Don't act stupid."

"I really am an ass," confirmed Bishop. "You bozos should know that better than anyone."

"That's what I _tried_ to tell them!" Rand finished with a shrug, "_Girls_."

Instructor Speaks approached the table where the three cadets were supposed to be studying, effectively ending their conversation. Speaks was the only female instructor on campus as well as the head director of physical regulations and Bishop's class advisor. Perhaps in an effort to appear more masculine, Speaks was the hardest instructor the academy had ever had. If she overheard them discussing the female cadets in a sexual way, they'd be running laps for sure.

"Cadet," she nodded to Bishop as the boys leapt to their feet. "A word?"

He followed her into his office without hesitation. Unlike the others, he knew he'd done nothing wrong and had to reason to fear an admonishment. He took a seat opposite her impressive desk while she shut the door.

"Cadet Bishop, we have a problem." She sat behind her desk and leaned back easily, folding her hands as she spoke. "Due to your class load, we've run out of classes to assign you. There are no classes for you to take next semester…"

He watched her without speaking, without breathing.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to graduate you." A smile finally broke through her hard expression. "You'll be the youngest officer in X.S.E. history, Cadet… Congratulations."

He felt his face transform from reluctant hope to jubilation. Dormant muscles pulled his face into an expression he knew he'd never made before. After all, he'd never been so _happy_. Feeling lightheaded from glee, he leapt to his feet and shook her hand, thanking her repeatedly. Tears misted her eyes as she congratulated him again and sent him on his way.

Shard was the first person he told, and after Instructor Speaks presented his diploma, she cheered the loudest. It wasn't until he left the stage and embraced his little sister that he realized he would be leaving the academy – and Shard. For the first time since he was an infant, he would be living and sleeping away from her.

They were true adults now.

_Age 18_

He promised Shard he would write daily and visit weekly, but his schedule didn't allow for those luxuries. As an officer, he pulled twelve – sometimes sixteen – hour days. Many missions pulled him away from that station and required days out in the field. Sometimes he got to be a hero, sometimes he arrived too late. He wasn't the helpless little boy anymore: he was the guy with the deep voice and a big gun. But not all battles could be won by brute force, and war was ugly, even for the victors. When the world got too unbearable, he found comfort in her letters. He was very proud of his work, but he worried about her.

Luckily, she graduated a year after her brother, breaking his record for youngest officer. He wasn't jealous. In fact, her graduation gave him an excuse for a much-needed break. He hadn't seen her since his graduation, and seeing her again made him feel all those missed days acutely. He would never get that year back again.

"Bishop!" she squealed and hugged his neck.

His arms could've wrapped around her twice over, so he didn't hold her as tightly as he wanted.

"Come on," she took his arm, "I wanna show you the new work-out room."

He'd been genuinely looking forward to seeing the new equipment. (Of course the academy got all the latest stuff _after_ he'd left.) But she had no intention of giving him a tour: she only wanted to get him away from the party.

"You should know, brother, that your 'friends' are planning a prank… And _you're_ the target."

His back stiffened. He'd heard of practical jokes being played against new recruits, and while he understood they were made in jest, he didn't see the humor in it. The "games" were mild forms of torture, really: taking the target against his or her will and threatening him or her with various degrees of discomfort unless they did something unpleasant. Surely, his friends knew he'd take offense to such things.

"They've hired a girl," Shard elaborated. "I don't know who, but she's supposed to seduce you. I knew how… _uncomfortable_… that would make you. So I thought I'd warn you in advance. If you want, I can pull you away. We can grab a bite somewhere else."

He'd enjoy that very much, but this was _her_ party and he wasn't going to ruin it by playing coward.

"Shard, I think I can manage a single prostitute… Enjoy your day. You've worked hard for it."

She smiled and left him.

He didn't mind being alone. His eyes scanned the room, memorizing all faces. Everyone stood in small groups and strolled from one group to another, socializing easily. Only he stood alone. The whore wasn't here yet, then. His brown eyes shuffled through the faces once more and noticed someone new. No, not new; someone familiar.

Jinx.

She wore a cadet's first year uniform, and when her eyes caught his, she smiled. He instantly knew that she was the hired girl, sent not by his friends – but by the Witness. Bishop didn't believe in coincidence. He did, however, believe that once someone was caught in the Witness's web, they were never truly free again. It made him sick to think his foster-father had resorted to this. He knew he'd made the right decision in getting Shard away from that villain, and it filled him with righteous fury. Instead of turning Jinx over to the authorities – as he should've done – he confronted her himself. After all, she might prove invaluable to the X.S.E. as a double agent. And if she were his sister, he would want someone to offer her another sort of life.

He quickly realized he was out of his league. She was charming and cunning, and while he struggled with small talk, she still managed to extract too much information from him. Within a year, the Witness would be running the academy from the inside. But what could be done about it? It wasn't a crime to have a criminal as a foster-father. He decided to keep her close and wait for her to make a mistake, but _she_ was playing _him_, not the other way around.

She took him to her dorm room and made him comfortable enough to lower his virginal guard. Like all sexually inexperienced folk, he bore a natural and staunch distrust of all things sexual. She made it seem… _spiritual_, even though he knew they were both deceiving each other. She praised him like a needy disciple, inflaming his ego and curiosity. Yes, he fell for her game. When confronted, she even acknowledged that she'd been paid by his friends, but returned the money to Bishop's palm, swearing she'd come of her own free will. They had been childhood friends, she said, and this was an experience meant to be shared between friends. When at last they united, he discovered she was a virgin, too, and then he was completely ensnared in the Witness's schemes.

_Present_

His camel pack was bone-dry. Time for a journey into the ancient ruins. Any trace of water had vanished long ago, but he found the nitrous pumps still useful. Sometimes, he could chip ice away from the crevices and wait for it to melt. Once he even found a snow-globe intact. The water was half-gone and dirty, but sweet nonetheless. By now, there wasn't much he wouldn't trade for a tall glass of water. The levels of liquid he consumed couldn't match what he was losing though sweat and urine, but he wasn't desperate enough to consume his own urine.

Not yet.

He traversed over the sand covering the old roads. The tops of power lines and buildings peaked at him, like an army waiting for him to pass. The wind wasn't severe here, so he removed his protective goggles. Tears immediately sprung to his eyes. He wasn't crying; his eyes were adjusting to this radioactively air.

His skin prickled as if someone had a weapon aimed at his back. But he was alone; utterly alone. Then why did he feel watched? Was the paranoia taking over? Or was that murderous Cable watching him telepathically?

"Sure!" Bishop shouted. "Just watch me die, you miserable old bastard! You think I'll beg for your help? Go to hell!"

The wind cut through the alleys, answering him with a low and lonesome whistle.

…

_Age 23_

It was an enormous raid on the underground movement. Trace, from the Gamma Squad, was the first one to make the break. Of course, the X.S.E. had known that mutants were coming together in secret for months, but they didn't know why, who, or even where they were meeting. And then Trace made an arrest that broke the whole conspiracy wide open. Trevor Fitzroy, Bishop's old archenemy from the academy (now calling himself Chronomancer) was planning a global annihilation of all humans without the X-gene that created mutants. Bishop knew that such plans had helped generate the mutant concentration camps that he'd grown up in, so the X.S.E. needed to stop this madman quickly and quietly. If word of this got out – it could be war all over again.

Every squad at the X.S.E.'s disposal was used to seal off the exits, isolate and apprehend the traitors. In the end, it was Bishop's squad, the Omega Squad, which arrested Chronomancer and delivered him to the maximum security prison. The governor planned to present them all with medals, but first there were pompous parties to throw and attend.

It was Shard who convinced him to go, "for the guys". Parties never were his forte.

He was almost relieved when Colonel Carey pulled him aside to discuss more relevant matters.

"Hope you'll pardon the interruption, Squad Commander, but your attention is better served elsewhere."

"Not at all," Bishop followed the middle-aged man into his office. "My skills in the field don't translate well at _balls_."

"Don't know who the hell decided we needed to throw a party every time an officer did his job… If you ask me, these funds are better served in the _school_ _systems_. These parties are supposed to create a better image of mutants, but if we could just educate people about mutations during their youths, we wouldn't have to worry about prejudices later."

"Sir, you have too much common sense to make the council committee. I suggest you retire now."

The Colonel gave a polite chuckle. "If I had my eyes set on politics, I would've left the force after my first medal… No, sir. Folks like you and me have never been any good at covering what we mean to say. Which is why," he hesitated, "I know how difficult this mission is."

"Sir?"

"I know about your time with the Witness, Bishop. I have never questioned your loyalty… or your sister's. But the man has a lot of secrets and the X.S.E. can't touch him. Any intell we might have on him isn't going to be volunteered."

"Colonel, I gave you all my intell on the Witness when I joined... He took me in when I had nowhere else to go, but in case you've _forgotten_, I asked the X.S.E. for help _first_."

The Colonel put up a hand. "Your loyalty isn't in question."

"With all respect, what _is_ the question?"

"We're searching for an ideal candidate to infiltrate the man's business. Naturally, you came to mind."

Bishop wanted to send him to Jinx, but he held back. He never could explain his protectiveness towards her, except is own guilt.

Grinding his teeth, he said, "I _appreciate_ the vote of confidence, _sir_, but this isn't a mission I could completely dedicate myself to."

He nodded once. "I thought so. Before you make a decision, listen to this." He pulled a miniature tape cassette from his desk drawer and inserted it into a player. "This was retrieved from the underground raid."

Static.

And then screams.

The distant shout of a man in charge, demanding something he couldn't get.

'_This is Jean Grey… We need your help… Right away… He's lost it, completely- Oh god, Scott! …Please help!'_

The static returned and Carey stopped the player. "It's authentic. The lost S.O.S. of the legendary X-Men."

Bishop felt disconnected from his own body. Stunned, he asked, "How did Fitzroy get this?"

"Says it was a gift from LeBeau."

The potential implications made his head spin. What was the Witness doing with this? Why would he give it to Fitzroy? What business did they have together? The curiosity almost made Bishop eager enough to accept the mission… But not quite. Respectfully, he declined the offer and headed back to the barracks. His good mood was shot. He'd always prided himself on his integrity and honesty; how could the Colonel think he'd make a decent spy? Bishop understood the usefulness of one, but the idea of doing the act made his skin crawl. When he took down the Witness, it would be from the right side of the law.

_Age 25_

The force traditionally assembled every year in January to celebrate the holidays and (for the less jolly, like Bishop) plan for the upcoming year. However, there had been some concern over whether all the squads would attend. Chronomancer had escaped his maximum security prison "with inside help". In Bishop's mind, there was no doubt the Witness was involved, and he wasn't too proud to blast his front door open and demand answers. Unfortunately, one miserable call to Richmond, and the Witness could sever all funding to the X.S.E. More _diplomatic_ tactics were needed for the situation. Ironically enough, Shard's team had been assigned with investigating the matter, and she wouldn't be able to join the celebrations until her duties were completed.

Bishop encouraged her to be successful. But he truly longed to see her: it was his only reason for coming.

The night after he arrived, she called and said she'd arrive the following night, maybe earlier depending on which flight she could catch. He was positively beside himself. His baby sister had made lieutenant a few months prior, and he hadn't _personally_ congratulated her. Also, he was eager to discuss his plans for merging his squad with the Alphas following Keller's retirement and Johan's medical dismissal. Another sister might grow weary of his "shop-talk", but he valued her opinion, and certain topics weren't appropriate over the lines.

He had trouble sleeping that night and awoke early with the intentions of working on his marksmanship to pass the time. Normally, he would've gone alone, but as he passed Malcolm's room, the notion to be social struck him.

"Eyes on your six, man!" he called loudly, opening the door to the sleeping figure he'd expected.

And one he hadn't.

He saw a glimpse of tangled limbs, a flash of panicked movement, and then he realized that beautiful woman in Malcolm's bed was Shard.

"What the hell is this?" he roared, his head pumping so hard he thought it would burst.

"What does it _look_ like?" Shard hollered back. "Christ, will you shut the door?"

"You're with _him_?"

"That's none of your concern!"

"N-none… None of my…" his mouth couldn't properly function. She had betrayed him as swiftly and heartlessly as their parents. At last, his mind found stability and he retaliated, "Tell me, Shard, are you an _ignorant_ or _compliant_ notch on his post? No woman means more to him than that!"

"_Get out!"_ she shrieked, shoving him out of the room.

The door slammed in his face with all the might of Poseidon. Slowly, he turned away to see the darting faces of curious residents, and felt his rage anew. Those targets were about to take a beating.

For the rest of the day, Shard and Malcolm kept distance from him, and he repaid the act. But it was eating him up. Had the villain _really_ seduced her? Convinced her that _she_ would hold a special place in his heart? Or worse, was his sister the sort of person that didn't _need_ such reassurances? How long had they been lying to him? Running around behind his back? And now that they apparently weren't on speaking terms, would Shard ever forgive him? The longer they were apart, the less he cared about her sexual life. He thought about every letter he didn't write, every secret he kept, every meal where he took the larger share, and the guilt was tormenting him.

Colonel Carey found him in his miserable state – still shooting down targets – and interrupted him.

"Good man, Bishop! I knew I could count on you to stay focused! …A minute?"

"Of course, sir," he powered down the obstacle course and wiped the sweat from his brow.

"We've got a lead on Fitzroy… Think your team's up for it?"

He wanted to leap at the offer, but luckily, he hesitated. Bringing in an escaped convict would mean bonuses, glory and more opportunities. While none of that was bad, Omega Squad had had it's share of it. Perhaps it was time to share the wealth, so to say; especially with a certain, angry sister who might accept his olive branch.

"Uh - sir, my team's taking a much needed break… But Beta Squad just got in last night. They haven't even unpacked."

The Colonel considered him very carefully, and then nodded slowly. "Alright."

"With your permission, I'd like to convey it to the team myself."

The Colonel pressed his lower lip against his upper one. "I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Thank you, sir.

If he had known that the entire operation was a hoax – a _trap_ – he would have never sent Shard. But how could he have known that the Colonel was in league with Chronomancer? Some of the smartest people in the world had been fooled by his cover; what chance did _Bishop_ stand against his cunningness? It seemed too great a conspiracy that the Colonel had helped Fitzroy escape, framed the Witness, and arranged for Bishop's demise to ensure the scoundrel's future success. But it was fact. This was the Colonel's second attempt on Bishop's life – the first being when he pointed the officer after LeBeau. He knew Bishop would feel responsible for reaping justice, that he would act alone, and that he was no match for the Nightwatch. But for once, he'd been _thinking_.

By the time anyone had the puzzle put together, Shard was dead, Fitzroy had disappeared, and the Colonel had sold of all the X.S.E.'s secrets.

Malcolm brought him the last, tiny fragment of hope on an information diskette.

"This is her diary. I think… she'd want _you_ to have it."

It was more than her diary.

It was her.

Not just her thoughts, but her thought pattern; more than her handwriting, her actual voice had been recorded. Where she went, how she felt, what she ate, and who she loved had all been recorded in perfect detail. Bishop realized early on the potential for re-creating something more… _familiar_ to contain his sister's memories. However, all the A.I. technicians he approached felt like he was desecrating her memory. It was a cyberpath civilian who finally told him about a new holograph sequencer that could operate independently for hours at a time. Thus far, all the simulations were programmed, but the creators would certainly jump at the chance to experiment with intelligent input. There was no guarantee that anything would work, but Bishop could hope…

And then he hit a glitch. The technology was property of Stark Enterprises, which made it the exclusive property of the Witness.

Bishop had always been a proud man, but his love was compounded with guilt, which eventually won out. So with his chin held high, he pretended not to beg the man for his help. He said the Witness owed a debt to Shard, and that he had loved her once, too. He attempted to _gain_ information while simultaneously forfeiting the next year and a half of his life. (Eighteen months, to be precise: a fine example of the Witness's humor, for the only time Bishop had been away from his sister was the first eighteen months of his life.) The Witness had changed. His lightly tethered thoughts had completed unhinged in Bishop's absence, and he gave no value to missed opportunities. If "pup" was looking to strike a deal because he "couldn't face life alone", the Witness would bargain. After all, Bishop had something that he wanted: inside information on the X.S.E., but he would no more admit to caring for Shard than he would admit concealing the X-Men's ancient S.O.S.

The next eighteen months were sacrificed in Shard's memory. Bishop became the very thing he loathed: a spy – and he wasn't even doing it for the right side! He became a member of the Witness's Nightwatch. They were an efficient, brutal team; as flawless as they were merciless. Bishop knew he'd done right in stealing Shard from this man's grasp, and pitied the youngsters in her place.

Yes, LeBeau was still taking in orphans and still using them in his schemes. But Bishop was using them, too. For every bushel of information he had to hand over, he gained a nugget on his foster-father, and the children were his greatest tool.

A.E. used his telepathy to discover that the Witness was more than some passing associate of the X-Men: he had been _one_ of them!

Little False traced the cause of LeBeau's madness to the death of his first child. They hadn't _all_ died in the war, as he liked to claim. The eldest died quite young, possibly when her mutations manifested, and he never recovered from it. This piece of information was the most personal – and most important – that Bishop could've unearthed. Later, when Adversary said that the X-Men weren't gods, but disgraced outlaws seeking redemption or weak orphans lacking control of their powers, the cogs in Bishop's mind started to turn. He knew from his grandmother that history had a way of making the past seem brighter. It was possible that LeBeau hadn't passionately taken up the banner of Xavier's dream, but had only joined to save his child's life. When that failed, he sought retribution on the lot of them.

"Brilliant theory, Bishop," his superior sneered, "But we can't persecute on _theories_. We need _proof_."

"You mean you want a _confession_," he growled back with gritted teeth. He had given them motive and means for the crime, but they still refused to move against the Witness. He was beginning to think they never would.

"It couldn't _hurt_ your case, squad commander."

Blinded by rage, he foolishly confronted the Witness. Of course, the silver-tongue serpent admitted to everything Bishop already knew (his children had all perished because he'd failed them, and the X-Men had been betrayed by one of their own), but revealed nothing new. Sometimes Bishop _thought_ he was discovering something new, but upon re-examining his words, realized he was being deceived. The Witness confessed to nothing; he only let Bishop believe as he would. Had he done the same with the children? If so, everything Bishop had was lies. By the end of the argument, Bishop was dismissed from the Nightwatch, and although he was certain it was because he'd gotten too close to the truth, he couldn't _prove_ that, either.

_Age 27_

"Welcome home, squad commander!" Rand grasped his hand and punched his back.

Bishop was deliriously happy to see his ugly face again. He was even happy to see Malcolm. That incident with his sister seemed ages ago.

"Off your asses, boys!" he goaded them. "Party's over!"

Malcolm was visibly relieved when Bishop embraced him with a stiff punch. "_Us_? I heard the Witness feeds his crew beer-fattened calves!"

"Is that the price of your loyalty, man?"

"Aye," Malcolm grinned, "and some big-breasted women would seal the deal!"

Rand visibly stiffened, and Bishop decided to clear the air. He wouldn't create a rift on his team because some people begrudged an old fight, thinking he was vindictive and unforgiving.

"I guess the X.S.E. _is_ lacking the fairer sex. Or have you just gone _through_ them all?"

Rand's eyes widened and Malcolm gave a deep-belly laugh. "Good to have you back, squad commander!"

Bishop was in great need of an honest mission after his time in the Nightwatch, and the X.S.E. didn't disappoint. The same day that he returned to the fold, there was a riot at the Pool Prison – led by none other than Trevor Fitzroy. The Omega squad was just one of several sent to aid the guards in containing the situation. When Bishop arrived, he was completely overwhelmed. Nothing in his life prepared him for what he saw.

The Chronomancer was so difficult to capture and contain because of the nature of his powers. Time and dimensions didn't guard themselves against him, as they normal men. Unchecked, he was free to travel wherever, whenever he pleased. He wasn't interested in helping right past wrongs, either. Just like his days at the academy, he was a self-centered, spoiled, and greedy bastard without any thought for others.

Bishop was ready to set a "stray" blast through Fitzroy's head.

But when he arrived at Pool, an army of blasts couldn't have stopped Fitzroy. He'd ripped open a time portal the size of a star, and scores of convicts followed him into the vortex. God only knew where or when those violent maniacs were pouring, but the officers were reluctant to follow them.

"It's a one way gate!" Trace tried to warn him.

"Come on, you sons of mothers!" Bishop shouted. "This is what we were born for!"

.

_To Be Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own.

**The Times and Life of Lucas Bishop**

_Present_

Bishop carefully descended the stairs into the cellar. Luckily, the steps were made of cement and hadn't crumbled. This was the seventh underground room he'd entered that day, and it turned out to be his lucky number. He would've settled for three, but seven was better than eight. There – in the center of the room – was an abandoned nitrous pump. He immediately fell on it, caressing the rusted metal with his fingertips. Perhaps he wasn't so lucky, after all: his only water source had been contaminated, corrupting the container along with whatever melted gas lay inside. For a long time, he considered breaking it anyway. His thirst was overwhelming his logic. He knew drinking this batch might kill him, but he was so, _so_ thirsty.

Dropping his forehead against the barrel, he refused to cry. His body didn't have liquid to spare.

So he stood and headed back upstairs, out the building and onto the next one. On the road before him was something foreign and fresh – it hadn't been there five minutes ago when he submerged. Maybe it _still_ wasn't there, and his delusions had become visual, too.

It was a Shi'ar version of a water-well. He would recognize their metallic, angular design anywhere. Unlike humans, who manually dug deep holes until (and if) they found water, the Shi'ar merely used a single tool, which resembled a crossbow. The tool was thrown into the ground, where it shot down until it located a water source. Then it pulled the water up to the surface, rather like a facet.

Bishop could _touch_ it!

Daring to hope, he worked the pump, and sweet, clear water poured into his hand. He put his lips on the facet head, not letting a drop spill on the ungrateful earth. Once his belly so full it was ready to burst, he splashed two handfuls on his face and neck. His skin sang with rapture. He'd never felt so alive!

Then he stood and scanned the horizon for any trace of a landed craft or foot prints. Of course, he saw nothing. He assumed his guardian angel had lent aid.

Better late than never.

…

_Age 30_

Turned out, Trace was correct. The portal opened by Fitzroy was a one-way gate, and for Malcolm and Rand, it was also the end of the road. Bishop found himself stranded at the turn of the last century with the legendary X-Men.

Nothing was as he'd imagined.

For starters, the environment: it was exactly as Grandmother had described – blue skies, white clouds, and _life_: wild and free everywhere! In the seas, the skies, above and below the earth! It was hard to believe everything shared one planet, and indeed, the creatures often came into conflict. Humans and mutants sometimes fought, too, but there were none of the oppressive laws that Bishop had grown up under. The relationship between the two species was very unstable and unrestricted. Like a river cutting its way across a valley, the history of mankind was unformed and violent.

And then there were the X-Men, who were less like the gods he'd heard tell of, and more like academy students. They _tried_ to behave like mature adults, but fights broke out amongst themselves frequently. Everyone was in love with everyone else! Rogue had a crush on Angel, who was in a relationship with Dazzler, and later with Psylocke. Cyclops had a crush on Psylocke, but would never admit it because he was with Phoenix, who was secretly in love with Wolverine. Iceman never got over Polaris, who moved on with Havoc. Professor Xavier loved Moira, who was with Banshee; and although Xavier spent most of his time with his beloved Lilandra, he seemed to carry a torch for Magneto, too. The two sworn enemies had once been kindred spirits, and the pain between them seemed too deep to be caused by a mere _friendship_.

Yes, they were all scorned youths.

But if he thought their silent yearning was unwise, Gambit was the king of fools. His heart lurched at every pretty face, and he stole their hearts, briefly but passionately, in return. By twenty-four, he'd already divorced one wife, but that did nothing to deter future candidates. He was charming, romantic, and fearless in his conquests. Seeing the man like this, it wasn't difficult for Bishop to imagine how he accumulated so many children. Eventually, his heart settled on Rogue, who – like Venus before her – was doomed to be loved by many but love none in return.

When they weren't behaving like cats in heat, the X-Men showed flashes of the courage they were famous for. He watched them train together under safe but frightening conditions. In a moment's notice, they would jump dimensions or time streams. They'd take a hit for an innocent bystander or each other… They even made sacrifices for the _ideal_ of a peaceful co-habitation. They were orphans, yes, but anyone with a family wouldn't be so reckless with their life. They were outlaws and villains, too, but that sharpened the blade of justice: they were more merciful with shades of grey than Bishop's system of black and white.

He began to admire them anew: not as legends, but as people.

Storm, the African weather goddess, left her home for the cause. Bishop _personally_ knew how hard that decision was to live with. Furthermore, she'd lost good men – lovers – for the cause. Yet she was strong enough to retain her compassion.

Bishop didn't know before his time jump, but Wolverine had once been at the mercy of curious and ruthless men. They bent him until he broke, but he pulled himself from the madness. Eventually, he was so gentle that chatty Jubilee could interrupt his chores without fear of reprimand. She'd rattle on endlessly about this person or that, handing him tools when he called out for them, never fearing she wasn't wanted.

Scott and Jean, who really were the heart of the group, were perhaps the bravest. Time and again, they watched each other run into combat, trusting their beloved would return. There was an intense tenderness between them, too: a love Bishop could scare imagine. Yes, he'd known lust; there was no other word for the passion between Jinx and himself. But outside the physical realm, his feelings for her were akin to hatred. She _used_ him time and again – for his knowledge and body and power. He'd also known unconditional love. Even when he and Shard fought each other, she brought him peace and joy unlike anyone or anything. But passion and affection together? It was an emotion that had perished with the X-Men's generation.

Men like Bishop didn't have women to marvel their beauty while they slept; nor did they have women worth killing and dying for. (At least, not anymore.)

They weren't all heroes – as Bishop had known. Rogue and Gambit seemed to be their poster-children for reformed villains. It was a façade he never bought. Regardless of how many times Gambit saved his life or had his six, Bishop felt he knew the man better than any of them.

But what did he really know?

Where was the litter of damned children? Where was his budding criminal empire? Who was aiding in his conspiracy? Where was the X-Men's _unquestionable_ trust he was destined to betray?

When it came to trust, the X-Men invested no more in Gambit than they did in Bishop. And in the end, they were right. For all his arrogance and foresight, Bishop was wrong about the X-Men's traitor.

It was Xavier.

In the end, it wasn't the desperados he took in that betrayed him… _He_ had betrayed _them_. The carnage that followed suit left Bishop feeling more lost than ever. A great deal of men and women gave their lives to salvage Xavier's sanity – too many. When at last the repair was done, Bishop felt more lost than ever. He'd come bearing knowledge of the future with the intentions of changing things for the better, but what had he changed? Not the number of victims, only the names. Perhaps the future couldn't be altered, then. Maybe he truly was doomed to fate.

_Age 35_

"…And this is our resident paranoid, Bishop," Jubilee said to her tall, blond companion. "Bish, this is Gambit's little girl, Honor."

She wasn't "little". At the edge of eleven, she was already taller than Jubilee at the summit of sixteen. She had the look of him, too – Gambit's height and smile and eyes.

He'd known she was joining Xavier's school – the whole damn place knew, and waited with bated breath. But Bishop felt anxious and trapped. It was one thing to meet the ghosts who lived on through folk lore – but another to meet a girl who'd only ever been a casualty. In his mind, she'd only ever been dead.

Shamefully, he was as cold towards her as he could manage.

When she met with death – as he'd always known she would – he was with her. Gambit was there, too. They were caught up in war, her powers were raging out of control, and Dr. McCoy couldn't reach them. Could he have made a difference? Maybe, maybe not. But why was her fate sealed when so many others had been saved? It didn't seem fair.

It _wasn't_ fair.

Her death was enormously different from Shard's. His sister had been killed suddenly, violently and unexpectedly. No one ever got to bid her farewell, and he was certain she had unfinished business with them, too. But Honor saw the end coming from afar off and handled it with grace that belied her tender years. She passed as comfortably as she could've – surrounded by loved ones, medicated out of agony, and most importantly, in her father's arms. Her final words were about the others awaiting her on that distant shore: her mother and uncle and grandparents. When her gaze became fixed and glazed, Gambit called to her softly and then released her from any guilt over leaving him.

He didn't shatter, as Bishop expected. Or if he did, he did so quietly.

After the bizarre funeral (Bishop knew it would be poor manners to ask, but why did they _bury_ their dead?), Gambit found him alone. The younger man bore the look of grief, but beneath the pain and sorrow, Bishop recognized the strength of those nearest to death. He worried for Gambit's sanity, but he spoke calmly.

"Wanted t' thank you, pup, for bein' wit' me when she passed."

Bishop thought carefully before he answered. "If there was a right thing to do, I'm glad I did it."

"She was really somethin' special, wasn't she?"

He nodded. "I hope to achieve a measure of the courage she showed in the face of certain death."

Bishop couldn't say so, but he admired Gambit's strength, too. A weak man couldn't bury all his comrades and children and go on to build a global empire, however corrupt that legacy might be… For once, Bishop didn't regard him as his feeble foster-father or as a lonely young man chasing pretty girls. He saw him now as commendable.

But Gambit's mind was far away. He spoke quietly, almost to himself: "Most fathers hold their babies first… But I wasn't dere. I think I always knew… Always knew she wasn't long for dis world… But I was dere for dat. Held her even as de Lord was takin' her away. And you stayed wit' me. I'll never forget you for dat, pup."

For a moment, he panicked, thinking Gambit blamed him. But he didn't. Strangely, Bishop earned a special place in his heart for sharing that experience with him.

It was gratitude he didn't deserve.

_Age 36_

The Witness made good on his promise all those years ago to create a hologram with Shard's essence. Following her death, Bishop missed her so acutely he thought his heart would literally break. But once he had the tools to see her again, he suddenly agreed with all the scientists who'd turned him down. Would this creation actually believe it was his late sister? How horrible would it be to lose one's physical body, independence, friends and purpose all in one day? Perhaps it was better to let her rest. He would join her one day, on that distant shore…

But Honor's death shook him. It tore open old wounds, made him yearn for Shard again. He didn't know what he wanted from her; he just needed _her_.

In the X-Men's danger room, Bishop sealed himself and opened the Witness's gift.

At first, nothing happened, and he worried he'd been cheated. Then a female's form appeared, transparent and void of color. The life appeared at her feet first and slowly moved up, like a slow moving computer. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

"Sh-Shard…?"

"Brother!"

She ran towards him, but he put his hands up to stop her.

"Bishop? What's going on?... I thought I was dead meat."

"You are."

She didn't understand. "Then… are you dead, too?"

"No. You're just an illusion, nothing more." He turned away and went to shut down the program.

She called out, stopping him. "We've been apart for a long time, haven't we? I can see it on your face, you're older… But I can _feel_ it, too. I've missed you. Why don't you just say you're glad to see me? I know you better than anyone… I can _see_ how much you've suffered."

"Because you're _not_ my sister," he said, keeping his eyes forward.

Shard was right about him getting older, and he was beginning to feel it in his bones.

All around him, life went on. Scott and Jean divorced; Storm married; Rogue conquered her powers; Beast discovered a cure for the Legacy Virus; Professor Xavier reconciled with Magneto; and Gambit's spawn materialized. Of them, Bishop alone stood still. He began to feel time as he hadn't before – as a burden – and formed new thoughts on what sort of man he'd be remembered for. It wouldn't be as a brave lover or a merciful deity or an untouchable beauty or an ingenious healer or a great leader or a doting father.

He was a lost man.

It was all he'd ever been.

Bishop knew by now that his place was not with the X-Men, but he had no way of getting back home. If he were younger, he might go off on some grand adventure to "find himself", but he'd had his own miserable company all along. He was too old to run; too wise to live in denial; and too stubborn to change.

_Age 38_

The Skrull warships closed in dangerously near the X-Men's vessel. Cyclops was an excellent pilot, but his tools were inferior to the enemy's, and it cost his team dearly.

Bishop could feel the death blow drawing near – a missile that brought heat and shook them to the deepest wells of their marrow. He felt his body become weightless, but never felt the impact of gravity returning. It was as if his spirit merely lifted from his body. A deafening roar faded quietly into silence, and the blinding, all-consuming flames gently melted into darkness.

Death for him was vastly different than the death Honor described. He didn't see a river to cross with ancestors waiting to greet him at the other side. Nor did he hear horns and drums in the distance. Instead, he found himself at the center of an endless wasteland. And although he could see nothing to provide shelter or substance, he walked with his back to the Sun. He knew his destination as surely as he knew to breathe.

…

_Present_

He wonders if he isn't _still_ dead.

The hands.

Look at the hands.

He didn't have those scars at thirty-eight.

Closing his hands into fists, he tries to imagine himself in another life. Men his age should be passing legends to their grandchildren and harassing their neighbors – not fighting for scraps to survive. But this is where he is. And if he can concentrate on reality, maybe he'll do _more_ than survive.

Someone planted that well for him.

He didn't imagine it, and there could be no other explanation.

But who? And why?

He decides to make camp at the well: a very obvious, unguarded camp, and wait for nightfall.

…

_Age 38_

Bishop came to a Joshua tree, gnarled and broken, but ever reaching for the ancient stars which canopied Grandmother. She sat patiently on a mat, which she'd knitted from dead grass, and watched him approach from afar. She didn't seem surprised to see him.

"Grandmother," he said, "Do you recognize me?"

She replied without speaking. "Of course, child. _You_ are the one who is ignorant."

"You've got that right! So enlighten me. Where are we?"

"Has it been so long that you no longer know you are home?" She smiled, but again, her lips didn't move when she spoke. Her fingers bore into the sand and she closed her eyes, content. "_Feel_ it, child. Feel the love, the war, the wilderness men destroyed…"

He sighed impatiently. "If I'm dead, then where's Shard?"

Grandmother pursed her lips and snapped back, "If _you_ are _dead_, and _she_ is not _here_, then it stands to reason that she is _not_ dead."

He felt weightless again, as if the whole world had spun over on him. "But that's… impossible."

She gave a smile full of some unknown meaning. "Den maybe _you_ ain't dead, pup."

"Who are you?"

He saw it then – everything she wanted him to see. He saw the dark-skinned natives of his motherland watch with unknowing eyes while white men breached their shores. He saw his parents leave Australia hours before it was destroyed, and he watched them huddle in the American camps, too afraid to ever leave. And for the first time in his long and winding life, Bishop was aware of the great plan for his life. He wasn't the random accident of birth that he mistook himself for. No; he was a rope that reached through time and space and pulled souls out of the darkness. Someone or something had designed to create him, had spun together the threads of his soul.

Shard.

Grandmother.

Rand.

Malcolm.

There were dark threads, too – the Witness and Fitzroy and his parents – but they were pieces of him nonetheless.

Their corruption had led to good things in his life. Fitzroy put him back in time; the Witness fed and clothed him; and his parents… Well, as wicked as they were, they were the flesh that created his flesh. Abandoning him was probably the kindest thing they'd ever done for him, for it placed him in Grandmother's care. She was a stranger, really; he didn't even know her name. But she treated him better than anyone, and he loved her dearly.

His great enlightenment didn't stop there. For the first time, he saw how much he'd failed – not just as the mistaken prophet, but as a _man_. He'd never loved half as much as Shard had. Her heart would've made Grandmother proud, and he never even realized it. He'd been so preoccupied with _protecting_ her - _envying_ her comfortable position - that he never considered her own longing to be _loved_ as she loved.

While trying to change the world, he'd failed to create those deep bonds that made the world worth saving. Strangely, it was the easier task that he couldn't complete. Did he ever really stand a chance to change the world?

He still believed so.

Even at the dusk of his life, with all the universe's mysteries unfolding to him, he believed he could still change the future.

Nuclear war.

The camps.

Scars at infancy.

Mass graves.

Grandmother sat beneath the tree, her faithful smile fading as the stars and moon moved away. Her voice was the last thing to leave him. "How will you do it, Lucas?"

"I don't know, but I will."

"_Hope_," she called back. "You _hope_."

…

When he awoke, his eye lids felt as heavy as iron. It took every effort to open them. He could no sooner move his limbs than he could move the ocean.

Glancing around, he saw himself in a foreign medical bay. The bed was raised and covered with metallic arches. The floors and walls were the same silver substance, and the computer systems were completely independent from user interface. Occasionally, he noted the red mark of the Shi'ar on stationary items.

So he had the Shi'ar to thank.

But where were the others? The X-Men had been with him…

"Welcome to the land of the living," a woman said as she entered the room. There could be no mistaking this Shi'ar princess for anything else. Her face was framed by bright red plumage and distinctive lines surrounded her fierce black eyes. Deathbird was tall and strong and beautiful, but her reputation was infamous for more than her good looks. Even silent and at a distance, Bishop was aware of her hunger and aggression.

Some called her insane.

"You're welcome to rest here as long as you need to," she continued, closing the space between them. When she reached his bedside, she stood too close and smelled like the air before a storm.

"I can't…" He swallowed to create some moisture in his mouth and tried again. "I can't move…"

"You were badly damaged in the battle. You're lucky to be alive, but a vegetated state is no life for a warrior such as you. I will restore you to your full glory."

"The others…?"

"I was only able to rescue _you_," she snapped, her eyes blazing. "Gratitude _accepted_. You should _never_ have left! Earth offers you nothing compared to the Shi'ar Empire. Don't you realize what we could accomplish together?"

"Don't think you _own_ my life just because you saved it, princess," he spat back, "There's no way the other X-Men are dead. What have you done to them?"

He watched as the fire in her eyes subsided: not in respect or fear, but in superiority. He anger was a low-burning ember ready to spark again at any time. "No more questions. You're ill, my only love, and I alone can save you. You will _not_ leave me again. Do you _understand_?"

"Yes… I understand."

There was no denying her insanity, but being crazy didn't rob her of all goodness. She was an incredible warrior; a princess who was still eager to learn; and beneath it all, a deeply lonely woman. Bishop decided she must've never known a moment of kindness to unfold so easily to his repressed affection. Perhaps, that was the reason for her insanity. Whatever the reason for her occasional moments of mental instability, his company seemed to stabilize her, and his modest kindness brought her genuine happiness. He'd given her _hope_, but for what, he didn't know. Did she hope he might stay of his own free will? That he enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his?

If so, he didn't disappoint her.

After he confronted her about staging his paralysis to make him dependent on her, she admitted the truth and released him from the drugs that kept him useless. But he saw no need to flee. If he'd enchanted her, then she'd seen through his prickly exterior to something no one else had – the part of him that _wanted_ to be nurtured. False imprisonment was her own, twisted way of taking care of him.

Once they were honest with themselves and each other, they fell under a mutual spell. He wouldn't call it "love" as the X-Men would… She never marveled over him, and he never worshipped her – but they trusted and enjoyed each other. Together they explored the galaxies, often coming into conflict with other explorers. But it was like a childish game he played with a friend, where the hits didn't really count, and the winner was whoever proclaimed their victory.

War was a game for them; the real fight came when they were alone. She blindly adored him and wanted to make him her consort. There would be court to attend, politics to play, and universe-influencing decisions to make. As for his happiness, there was no one he loved more than her. Bringing her physical pleasure healed his heart of the wounds Jinx had inflicted with her schemes. Finding his own pleasure between her legs allowed him to be vulnerable. If he believed in the notion of "soul-mates", she would undoubtedly be his. But he'd made a promise to change the future of earth for the better. He could no sooner abandon that quest than she could abandon her empire to join him.

They were destined to part ways, just as they'd been destined to meet. It burdened his heart to think of the days and nights without her, but he didn't know how to tell her. He didn't realize she saw the end coming, too, and that he would never have the opportunity to bid farewell.

Scorned – apparently – she abandoned him on earth, at the mercy of the Skrulls, which had been pursuing them for weeks. He managed to overcome them (as he hoped she'd intended), but once again, he found himself alone. Another woman had been brutally ripped from his life.

_Present_

He dreams of the camps. Grandmother is very ill; she hadn't left her bed in days. Even as a child, he knows she doesn't have much time left. He tries to make her comfortable with pillows and blankets. Shard makes her comfortable with smiles and songs.

Grandmother favors his sister. Her final words to Bishop aren't of encouragement or love for him. Instead, she pleads with him to protect Shard. As if he would sell her to save his own skin! No – _knowing_ he wants to do right isn't enough. Grandmother makes him _promise_ to be his sister's keeper.

Did she know Shard was destined to take the hit meant for him?

As a seven-year-old, he becomes caretaker to his sister. He promises to make life for her easier than it's been for him.

And – in retrospect – that's exactly what he dedicated his life to.

Maybe saving the X-Men from Xavier and Senator Kelly from assassination changed the course of history. Maybe it was enough to avoid nuclear war and the mutant concentration camps. Maybe he and Shard grew up with their miserable parents, never meeting Grandmother or the Witness. Maybe they grew old and fat and watched their grandchildren quarrel. Or maybe Hope doomed them all and nothing he did mattered.

"_Bishop!" Shard welcomed him in her cadet uniform. In his arms, she was as frail as he recalled. "Come on, I wanna show you what you've missed."_

"_Welcome home, squad commander!" Rand punched his shoulder._

"_Merde_! We're too late!"

"No, help me get him to the ship!"

"Princess-"

"Stop wasting time and _help_ me!"

_Everyone waited for him at the academy – not just the cadets, but __**everyone**__. Grandmother, the Witness, Shackle, Jinx, Link, Knives, Xavier, all the X-Men, and even Deathbird: restless and beautiful as ever. _

_Yes, he had missed them._

..

_To Be Continued…_

**Author's Notes:** Just a few quick things here… First, BIG thanks to Of Kurtz – without whose encouragement, I probably would've never bothered to update. The next chapter will be the last one, and will deal with the more modern X-Men issues, like the Messiah Complex and King Cyclops. For this chapter, I intentionally kept some details obscured – such as who Storm married, who mothered Gambit's children, and the circumstances which reunited Xavier and Magneto – for the reader's enjoyment. I have my own ideas, obviously, but I welcome you to fill in the details. The only intentional slight I took was against Rogue by comparing her to Venus, which was more the goddess of lust than love and enjoyed nothing more than scorning hearts and toying with emotions. Thanks for reading and if you enjoyed, please leave a review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own.

**Author's Notes: **Thank you for making it this far! I apologize for the delayed update, but as it's the last one, you shall wait no more. I'm only glad that I completed my story before Marvel brought Bish back. Otherwise, they would've ruined it. And now, to the conclusion…

**The Times and Life of Lucas Bishop**

_Present_

Bishop rested in a medical bed, his lips to death's ear. The strong body he'd taken for granted in his youth was shriveled, deprived: little more than a skeleton. A machine pumped fluids into his veins while another kept his heart beating.

It might've been too late.

He didn't want to fight any more, he only wanted peace.

Shard's hands reached into his chest and gripped his heart. He couldn't see her anymore, but felt and heard her. Perhaps there was no vision on the other side. Her voice, carried on the wind, cried: "Lucas… Lucas, can you hear me? Stay with me…"

_Age 39_

He didn't immediately return to the X-Men, although he did visit them after his mysterious departure several months earlier. To his disappointment, the team had disbanded. Only Xavier remained in New York. The others felt compelled to make their lives elsewhere. Jean Grey was dead; Cyclops worked in San Francisco with the White Queen, his new lover; Storm lived in Africa with her husband; and many of the rest were on a rogue mission in Europe. Gambit was among them, having re-located his entire family to avoid the restrictive reproduction laws on mutants in the States. His path was already beaten, but only Bishop could see where he was going. While in Europe, he was gathering invaluable goods and knowledge, and making strong ties to powerful men. When the world crumbled away, he would rise to the top.

Rather than return to work, Bishop decided to take a much needed sabbatical. He set out to see the world, not as an officer of the law, but as a child of nature. Over the next nine months, he saw the ancient wonders (which were modern in this time), and places lost in his time, like the great rainforests and everglades and savannahs. Occasionally, he made acquaintances along the way, but preferred his own company. He felt no connection to any of these things. His attention constantly turned to the stars, where Deathbird lived without him; and to the barren earth, which reminded him of his childhood.

Nothing ever changed.

Why then, did this deep and terrible guilt gnaw away at him, insisting there was something greater?

_Age 42_

"_No more mutants…"_

It was the cry heard round the world.

Sometime between crawling into his empty little bed and opening his eyes again, the world had slipped into chaos. A wailing woman woke him first. Then he heard the gunshots, the shouts, and the responding cries bemoaning the lost lives.

San Marco was a mutant haven in South America: first established by Magneto, and later sanctioned by the UN. The tiny country was no better than the camps Bishop had been born into. The police didn't dare cross into the city, medical care was medieval, and luxuries of the modern era like running water and waste disposal were a myth. This place was no better – but it _was_ different. The earth grew plants, the water carried fish and supported livestock, and the people still had hope. They carried the traditions of their parents, sent their children to school, and took pride in their work as merchants or craftsmen or healers. In fact, Bishop had come to enforce the rule of right, but found himself conformed to their standards.

The morning Wanda Maximoff changed history, he watched as bodies piled up in the streets. More people took their own lives in grief. No one knew why they'd all been stripped of their natural abilities, and the fear bred anger. The place was a pressure cooker about to explode.

Uncertain, Bishop grabbed his hand weapon and waded through the crowded, rotten streets to the apartment of Teri Baltimore. She lived alone, and when the violence erupted, would surely be among the first causalities.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

He pounded on her door without answer. A woman slinked by – her face horribly burned – and reached for him, begging for help.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"Come on, lady!" he called, "Open the door!"

She did, and ushered him in with a finger over her mouth. They stood together for a moment, listening to a news report on the radio. The signal must've come from nearby Chile, and was reported in hurried Spanish so that Bishop caught only phrases.

_Again, the latest update… X.S.E. has failed in preventing… Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch… No more mutants! Please stay indoors and report-_

"We don't have _time_ for this," he finally interrupted, grabbing Teri by the arm. "Let's move."

"Do you even know where we're going?" She pulled her arm back and disappeared into the kitchen.

"As far away from _here_ as possible."

"That's quite a ways, Bishop! How will we survive?"

He held up his gun while she re-emerged with apples and bottled water in her pockets. When she offered him a piece of fruit, he sneered, "I'll _starve_ first, thanks."

They joined the panicked masses in the street, Teri trailing in his wake like a minnow behind a shark. A building had caught fire somewhere, and a helicopter flew overhead. There was no general consensus on the safest destination. Some people ran back indoors while others ran through the streets. Bishop wished they could travel through the sewers or on the rooftops; but neither were viable options. He would have to use his body as both shield and weapon, and hope the country hadn't been sealed off. Overhead, the helicopter was following him, and he tried to shake it by ducking into alleys and crisscrossing through buildings. He thought he'd finally succeeded when a Humvee sped across his path.

A friendly face materialized in the window.

"Forge?"

"_Get in!"_

Bishop and Teri dove into the backseat, and the vehicle squealed off before they'd even shut the door. The slight woman slinked down in her seat, peaking through the bulletproof windows when she dared.

"Rounding up _all_ the old dogs?" asked Bishop, "Or were you just in the area?"

"We had some warning about the Scarlet Witch, but we weren't expecting anything on this scale. Nothing so _soon_, either. Xavier thought he'd have the chance to take her out…"

Xavier was doing his own dirty work now? Bishop didn't believe that, and he couldn't believe that Forge was so gullible, either. But he kept silent while Forge recklessly delivered them from the danger of the city.

"So what's the plan?" he finally asked.

"_Plan?_" Forge said, "There is no _plan_. We don't even know who's still alive! For now, we retreat and wait for instructions."

Retreat from _what_? And wait on _whom_?

He said nothing more, but encouraged Teri with a gentle grip and silently accompanied Forge to his base in Bolivia. There, the names of the dead poured in.

_Alison Blaire._

_Jonothon Starsmore._

_Lorna Dane._

_Alex Summers._

_Rogue._

With a heavy heart, Bishop withdrew into his own thoughts.

In his world, a mutant had killed millions of humans: a major catalyst for enslaving her kind. But here, a mutant had killed others of her own – possibly thousands of them. The survivors had been stripped of their mutations. In this world, mutants had destroyed themselves.

He should've felt sorrow, but his heart was actually relieved. With three little words, Wanda Maximoff accomplished his life's goal. She did it without any interference on his part, but he must've made a difference somehow. Before he time traveled, mutants continued to exist. Now they were endangered. Like an overcrowded flower bed, reducing the population ensured survival for the rest.

Some people felt such a strong attachment to this tiny part of themselves that they chose death over a life as a "baseline". Bishop didn't understand them. He would gladly give up his mutations, his physical strength, and all his thoughts to spare the world from suffering his timeline. Grandmother deserved to live passionately and die comfortably, nursed by loving hands instead of pleading with children to protect each other. Shard was beautiful, compassionate, and intelligent – and deserved a chance to thrive in a world that valued those traits. There were countless others: destroyed physically or spiritually for merely being born.

What was evolution superiority compared to freedom, bravery, harmony, and all the things he'd never known outside of dreams? Was it worth the destruction of the very planet?

As the days crawled by and rumor-laden facts poured in, Bishop learned that not all mutants had regressed into _homo sapiens_.

Cyclops called for those unscathed to join him in Utopia. Under his guidance, the species could safely recover. Bishop retained his abilities, but declined to join the segregation. He needed no protection, and if Cyclops sought to build up mutant numbers again… Well, Bishop couldn't help with _that_, either. Who knew what effect his miniature bastards would have on the time line? He might become his own great-grandfather!

No; his presence was better used in San Marco.

However, Storm _did_ answer the call, and shortly thereafter, her country collapsed. The territories around it also fell into chaos. Since the American division of the X-Men huddled together and presented such an easy target, they could barely support and defend themselves. Wakanda and her neighbors were finally rescued by the tattered European team – Gambit's team.

He helped stabilize the region by eliminating the militant rebels and placing a political prisoner, David Osuzu, on Storm's vacant throne. King David was so grateful that he made his country a haven for mutant survivors, and those with children paid less taxes.

The moral of the story – that a person's worth couldn't be determined by their genetics – remained lost on Cyclops, but not the American government. Gambit was invited to Washington to act as the official mutant-human liaison, although he didn't immediately respond.

Meanwhile, Bishop continued to help as he always did. Quietly.

Forge and his ragged team established make-shift hospitals above ground and gathered information below. Teri helped bless and bury the dead, and pleaded with local charities to help feed the homeless and the orphans. When the donations arrived, Bishop ensured that the goods went to the intended – and not local bandits and crime lords. Because San Marco wasn't the worst or best situation, it received much less attention than other asylums, but there were always those willing to take from those with less.

Bishop and Teri only crossed paths at night, when the whole team gathered to eat at Forge's base.

"I heard the phone lines are back up," she conversationally said one night, passing him a bowl of corn.

He took his share and passed the bowl to Rictor.

Forge, who was sitting across the table, answered her. "Yes. But at the expense of our warm water. Don't ask me how. If you'd like to make a call, the line is secure."

"If we don't find a way to shower soon," Rictor said, "That might be how we start talking to _each other_."

Teri accepted a plate of miscellaneous chicken parts and curled her nose. "Damn it… Someone burned the meat!" The chunks of food had been burned black, but ever mindful of those in need, she didn't waste anything. She took a piece and passed the plate to Bishop.

"Perhaps the cook's Cajun," he said dryly.

…

Being trapped in San Marco and spending much of his time inside a fortress allowed the ghosts of the future-past to catch up with him. At night, he examined their stories in his mind, turning over previously discarded details and committing them to memory.

Grandmother used to watch the sunset: it was the only quiet time of her days. The brown and foggy twilight was nothing compared to the glorious displays of her youth. Although he had never asked, he realized now that she must've been thinking of her homeland. Her memory preserved the sights, smells, and sounds of Kenya settling into night.

Malcolm, Bishop's old academy friend, came from a wealthy family. Unlike Fitzroy, Malcolm didn't brag about his good fortunes, but the evidence spoke for itself. His parents bought new lockers for the entire school to ensure their son received a decent one; and after Malcolm joined the fitness club, they got new uniforms, too. Bishop only met Malcolm's parents once, but they made a much better first impression than their son, who Bishop despised in their early days. Given time, he realized that Malcolm was a little spoiled and arrogant, but he wanted success and love just like anyone else. He had a soft spot for pretty women and enjoyed them best in excess. It was only in the later years that he complained of loneliness and a yearning for one _loyal_ woman.

Somehow, Bishop had never asked him about Shard. Was she special to him? Even after all this time, the implication of her being exploited could send Bishop into a rage.

Shard was never far from his thoughts.

When Bishop was fourteen, he drank some contaminated water and became deathly ill. She nursed him back to health, keeping his mind preoccupied with stories of the brave and noble X-Men. He drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming about a timeless place where men roamed free, seeking grand adventures instead of fighting for survival. Her voice was cool and sweet like clean water, catching at consonants like boulders in the stream; and luring him away from the banks of reality. Her filthy, kind hands soothed away the worry marks already lining his face.

She should've gone back to LeBeau.

Had the Witness _known_ Bishop would be thrown back in time? It stood to reason that he couldn't have known, but nothing was what it seemed with that senile old bat. Had he arranged for it, hoping to change the course of history? Perhaps he wasn't aiming for global dominance after all, but for a different future for his children.

Bishop only knew how they had died.

He'd witnessed the eldest die when her powers manifested. The others lived in whispered folklore. The firstborn son, "Arcadian", contracted the Legacy Virus as a young man and, nearing death, was placed in a hyperbolic chamber until a cure could be found. Unfortunately, the Graverobber was able to possess his body for sinister means. The circumstances surrounding his final death were very mysterious, and Bishop suspected that Gambit had killed the boy himself. The other son, "Roark", died trying to detonate the nuclear device that destroyed Genosha. Two daughters were killed in the Summers Rebellion of the Philadelphia camp. Supposedly, they escaped once, but rather than leave their friends to unimaginably cruel deaths, they attempted a rescue mission. The girls vanished, allegedly unsuccessful.

For these tragic deaths, the Witness built the LeBeau Tower in memoriam. But not all his children were heroes.

There were rumors of a girl child known only as "the Plague". She was born twisted and wicked, and could inflict illnesses, insanity, or even death with the slightest touch. But Bishop suspected this story was invented by petty enemies and perpetuated by restless foster children. According to gossip, everyone who knew her was forbidden to mention her. How, then, did her name live on? Also, she was supposed to be born _after_ all her siblings had been killed. By then, the Witness was an old man: deformed and delirious from war and sorrow. He might've retained the _ability_ to father children, but Bishop doubted he'd be so eager to bring more children into a world which had stripped him of everything most dear. More likely, if the girl had ever existed at all, she was a foster child: perhaps the first.

Why hadn't Bishop asked about them when he had the opportunity? He could lie and tell himself that he wanted to spare the Witness the pain of remembrance, but he knew the pain of lost loved ones never diminishes. Truthfully, he didn't care. He'd wanted the man to suffer, knowing the names of his prodigy were no more important than the millions of others taken.

…

Some hours before dawn, Bishop abandoned the ghosts and crept into the basement, where the phone beckoned him like a priest promising absolution. He was surprised to find company.

Forge was bent over a work table with his back to Bishop. A single lamp illuminated his tools, and he was deeply engrossed in some project. Without turning to acknowledge Bishop's presence, the man said: "I suspected you'd be down here after dinner… What took so long?"

"…The time delay."

Forge grunted. "I'll be out of your way in just a moment… Not making much progress anyway."

"What is this?" asked Bishop, rounding the table to observe various objects: most of them were small and metallic, but he couldn't deduce what they added up to.

"Time travel…" Forge caught Bishop's eye and smiled. "Turns out, _this_ was the easy part. Figuring out what to do with it is the problem… The only way to _stop_ the Scarlet Witch from killing thousands of people and maiming millions more is to kill _her_. I know it should be an easy call, but it's not. I don't want to unleash a Guillotine on the world." He set down his tools and cleaned his hands on a work rag. "What would you do, Bishop?"

"I'd give her a medal."

Forge watched him for a moment.

It was true; she'd saved Bishop and billions of others from a dystopian reality.

"Yes, I suppose there is _that_ option," Forge finally said, standing. "I'll let you make your call in peace."

…

"_Hallo_?"

"Gam- LeBeau, please."

"_Ja, mein name ist Luc LeBeau."_

"_Remy_ LeBeau."

The young boy didn't bother pulling the speaker away from his mouth before he blew out Bishop's ear drum by shouting, _"PAPA!"_

Somehow, without visual aide, Bishop was aware of the child leaving the phone as his father approached it. Gambit had changed. His presence was palpable, even at this distance.

"How did you get dis number?" he demanded.

"Gambit, it's Bishop."

"…Pup?"

Silence stretched out between them. Bishop had no words for the man he'd always and never known. He realized that Gambit might've thought he'd perished years ago, and had no words left for him, either.

"I heard about Rogue," Bishop finally said. "I'm… sorry. For your loss."

He hesitated. "Is dat why you're calling?"

"I apologize if I've made you upset. Keep it together, man, my shoulder's too hard to cry on."

"Don' have a foot stool handy, either… _Non_, I thought it might've been about my visitor."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's Shard… She ain't a hologram anymore. Ironic, ain't it? You gained someone same day as I lost someone."

Bishop felt like he'd been dropped off a building and splattered into a hundred pieces. "Is she with you? In Vienna?"

"Sorry; just missed her. Said she's headin' to Utopia to help with de reconstruction."

"You mean the _de_struction," he growled. "If that's where she is, then that's where I'm headed."

"You take care of yourself, pup."

"Do yourself a favor, Gambit, and take the job in Washington."

"Why?"

"In _my_ time, it was the only place that didn't get nuked."

He crashed the telephone handle back in its cradle and was about to charge off when something small and silver caught his eye. Forge's Guillotine beckoned to him from the abandoned work station, but he hesitated for only a moment before continuing on his way. He'd wasted enough time already.

…

Crossing borders was even more difficult since M-Day, but there wasn't a force in existence strong enough to keep Bishop from his sister. They'd overcome time and death to be together. What was physical distance compared to that?

Seeing her probably took years off his life, but he felt so young again. Why shouldn't he? She was still a vibrant young woman, and he was still her grumpy older brother.

She explained that her resurrection was part of the Witness's design. Appearing as a hologram was due to lack of this era's technology, but once Bishop awoke her mind, it remained active, even without her visual image. She was able to communicate with the Danger Room and ultimately alter its software. As a hologram, Shard existed independent of user control. Regaining a body was the next step in her plan, and once the Danger Room became self-aware, it boldly helped in Shard's quest. A body for her meant a body for Danger. Unexplainably, Professor X had been stalling Danger's quest. It was only when the Scarlet Witch stripped him of his telepathic powers that Danger and Shard were able to break free from their prison beneath Xavier's mansion.

Naturally, Shard sought out her family. Gambit was the easiest to track, but Bishop was her goal, of course; just as she was his.

Reunited, the siblings lived in the same "Utopia" but saw things with different eyes. He could never forgive the Witness for threatening to take away his sister, and she could never hate him. She referred to Gambit's children as "the babies", and fawned over them like doe-eyed teddy bears. To Bishop, they were only shadows of their dead and buried selves. Although her optimism oftentimes kept him sane, Bishop thanked her with nothing but good-natured ridicule.

"That's how any man could get you… Just leave a trail of infants leading to his bed."

"No way!" She laughed earnestly. "And if you knew _anything_ about kids, you'd know they don't stay put. I'd be running after _them_, not _him_!"

"You are. There's some ancient metaphor about horses and carts that should be applied here."

"Okay, so I've been in limbo for two decades and my instincts have gotten ahead of my body! What's _your_ excuse? A grumpy old man like you should be _crawling_ with kids!"

It hurt to tell her the truth and he couldn't lie to her, so he said nothing further. There was only woman he would've trusted with his offspring, and her betrayal was still a deep wound: the only remaining mark of their epic love. He didn't recognize what he felt for her then. Lacking the frivolous gestures he associated with romance, their bond had nonetheless proved both immortal and invincible. Time and distance had only strengthened his fondness for her. But he couldn't share those secrets with his baby sister, and it made him miss his Shi'ar princess even more.

_Age 44_

"He was a _kid_!" roared Wolverine, slamming his fist on the table. "What the _hell_ was he doin' out there?"

"Protecting his home," Cyclops sighed, the guilt a visible burden.

"What's the point in _protectin'_ this goddamn rock if there's no one to live on it?"

"There are still people to protect," Emma interjected.

"No thanks to Nick!" argued Wolverine. "He got cut down like a lame dog! Couldn't even _slow_ _down_ the attack! That was somebody's _boy_, Summers – their _son!_ Was a time when that _meant_ something."

Cracks in the union became chasms. There was no doubt that Cyclops had lost his way; the only question was how to _act_.

"Do you think we should ask Gambit for help?" Shard suggested at one of their mutinous meetings.

Wolverine answered: "He's our man on the outside. This ain't an _outside_ problem."

Beast folded his hands and said: "But in order for our new regime to have any effect, the transaction needs to proceed swiftly _and_ be recognized internationally. Foreign aid may be our best option."

"If there is _one_ thing Cyclops has done well," said a weary Storm, "It has been alienating his allies…"

"Present company excluded," Beast added dryly.

The room fell quiet, Bishop among them. He knew the best way to disarm Cyclops was to let the man do it himself. He would have to be convinced that he was losing control of Utopia. With his resources divided between internal and external opponents, the mutiny would be clear to proceed.

Secretly, Bishop had considered killing Cyclops, but he took an oath long ago to uphold the principles set forth by Xavier, and non-lethal force against his enemies was part of that vow. In his heart, he didn't believe Cyclops was irredeemable – only misguided.

It was a mistake that would cost him everything.

"I'll arrange a meeting with LeBeau," Bishop finally spoke. "Let Cyclops pick up the trail, and while he's distracted, those left behind call for a national election. Let the _people_ decide."

Beast cautioned, "He may not recognize any authority but his own."

"Without his army and facing outside opposition, he will have no choice," Storm stood and told Bishop, "Do it."

…

The day the coup was set to launch, the world kicked him in the teeth again.

Hope, Hope, Hope.

No matter which path the world traveled, he couldn't escape that damned girl! Fortunately, he'd retained the Guillotine – Forge's time travel key – and used it to place Shard and himself in Cooperstown on the night Hope was born. Being the first pilgrims on the scene gave them a slight advantage, which they lost to his sister's uncertainty.

She needed an objective, but Bishop didn't have one. He considered sending Hope into the future she'd created, but that was a paradox. She couldn't _create_ a world she'd never _lived_ in. Forcing such an anomaly on the universe might terminate it. There was also the possibility of vaccinating her against the mutant gene. A cure had been created several years ago while searching for a course of treatment against the Legacy Virus. But his chances of getting the infant to a doctor before Cyclops intervened were narrow – even with a time traveling device. His best option was to exterminate the child.

_Present_

Arcadian just tried to stay out of her way. For a princess who'd grown up isolated, Aliyah had considerable skill as a healer. He hoped it was enough… Hoped he hadn't been too late. His ability for ripping through time was only valuable when he had a destination. Obviously, after Bishop faded into the time stream, no one knew where he landed or when he died. To make things worse, neither hunter had ever met their target.

Aliyah had never even _seen_ him.

She had the look of him, which might've been a curse. Not to the senses, by any means – his bold features translated well on a woman. But the identical eyes and similar markings on the brow would've made ambiguous paternity impossible. She would've inherited his scorn.

Unlike Arcadian, she grew up never knowing that Lucas Bishop was anything but her father. After her mother was violently killed in battle, seeking him out was her next logical step. Arcadian agreed to help her for family's sake. They weren't related, but he hoped Bishop could help end the war, which – according to Bishop – was destined to destroy his entire family.

Everything they knew about their target had come from Arcadian's father, Gambit. He gave them Bishop's words and his physical description, which hurt them as much as it had helped. If they hadn't expected him to be built like a gladiator, they might've approached him sooner. He wasn't the first time-lost warrior they'd encountered, and by the time they were convinced of his identity, he was half dead.

Now Arcadian watches the princess fervently work to save so many things. Her hands, tender and sweet, remind him of someone he once knew and forgot long ago.

_Age 45_

"I don't care why yer after the girl… Don't even care why yer in league with Sinister. I'm just glad Rogue ain't around to see yer _true_ stripes. Speakin' of stripes-" _sknit_ "-unless you want s'_more_, better tell me where she is."

"Why don' you just kill me, Wolverine? If dis your idea of torture, we gonna be here a _long_ time."

The so-called "mutant messiah" was born in an era of peace and turned brother against brother. Bishop and Shard weren't the only ones on the hunt. The baby had more trackers with more motives than anyone could fathom. To Bishop, they were irrelevant; he'd cut through them all if that was the requirement. But Shard internalized the outside insanity. Unlike her brother, she was never a killer, and she took the X-Men's betrayal very personally.

Wolverine torturing her foster father finally broke her, and she forfeited the girl child to the X-Men. When Cable took her into the hidden tunnels of time, Cyclops thought he'd won.

He didn't know about the Guillotine.

Wolverine and the others had never called for the elections. The moment they heard tale of a mutant birth, they rallied behind Cyclops. In his quest for the child, he'd broken every creed the X-Men stood for… And yet they followed him _still_.

It broke Bishop's heart, too, but the X-Men had proved unworthy of salvation. Those that had been killed by Onslaught proved sacrificial lambs in lieu of heroes. Heroes should die as such, and not live forever to be corrupted. If Bishop could undo his past mistakes, he would. But there was no time for chasing dreams.

_Age 52  
>2088 A.D.<em>

"I guess it's true what they say," Shard remarked idly, "Everything comes full-circle."

Bishop lay in the sand beside her, belly down with his eyes to the east.

Cable had recently abandoned the girl with no food or water, and left her to hot-wire a small motor vehicle to escape the desert. He was fond of these "games". Impending nightfall compelled her to find shelter in a cave, where Bishop and Shard finally caught up with her. She'd killed the scorpions and snakes inside, making a meal from the reptiles' flesh. The sight sent a shiver down his spine. Only seven years old, and she'd already learned that the world was a kill-or-be-killed place. No loving grandmother had taken _her_ in.

He set down his binoculars and turned to Shard. "What are you going on about?"

"This time is our _home_. You don't think it's weird that we're back now? You don't think it _means_ something?"

"It means Cable's as dumb as he is ugly. He fled from us and into the era we were in our prime."

"This is no kind of life for a little girl…" she sighed.

Realization dawned on him, and for a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe. "_Damnit!_ All this time we've been hunting him – what if _he's_ hunting _us_? What if he's come here to stop me from jumping through the time portal after Fitzroy?"

"He… _Shit!_ What're we gonna do, brother? Leave her to chase down a dead-end? We should take her _now!_ End it!"

He carefully watched Shard, suddenly terrified she would fade before him. She was no killer; especially not where children were concerned. He always knew the final, filthy act would be left for his hands to commit. But he didn't want to send her away. Beneath his confidence, his resolve wasn't absolute. He needed her strength, which ironically, had always been her weakness. If he kept her, Cable might kill a young Bishop and doom them both… Sending her away might result in her death as well.

"I'll check out Pool," Shard decided. "You get the girl."

"Shard, wait! I'm… sorry… For failing you."

"This isn't the time to get sentimental, squad commander; we've got a job to do!"

She left and Bishop approached the cave. By the time Hope sensed his presence, it was too late. The little girl fought bravely, but she might as well have been a moth attacking the moon. He remembered two helpless orphans once fighting odds just as impossible.

"You don't know _how much_ I wish I could change this," he said, gripping her frail, tiny neck.

As air and blood built behind the seal his hand created, her pale face burned bright red. The whites of her eyes turned pink – just like Shard's eyes when she cried. She didn't bother pleading for her life, nor did she weep. Bishop doubted this child had ever shed a tear; Cable wouldn't allow it. Her tiny nails dug at his skin, desperately clawing for blood. She even tried penetrating the weak points beneath his wrist, but he'd been a warrior all his life. His skin was thick hide, and her fingers had only practiced at war.

Long ago, he and Shard had planned on removing the girl from Cable's – and therefore, Cyclops's – influence. They would strip her of her mutant powers and raise her as their own. But when they finally managed to track Cable, he'd married a human woman. Two pairs of eyes made the child much more difficult to abduct, and they had hoped she could raise the child with love. They were wrong. Now the mother was dead, and the girl was deeply brainwashed by Cable. As long as she lived, she would be his pawn.

What choice did Bishop have?

Suddenly, she stopped fighting. Her small, cold hands held firmly to his wrist the way an infant gripped its bottle, and her mouth gaped open like a hungry baby bird.

His resolve shattered and he dug deep to remember that old, burning hatred. She was a murderer, a tyrant, a liar, and a thief! Given the chance, she would rob him of all he held dear. But she'd committed no crime yet. The little girl he squeezed the life from was an innocent. Murder was an abomination; slaughtering children was especially atrocious, but he didn't know what else to do. Hope _had_ to die in order to restore civilization.

As she teetered at the border of life and death, her eyes didn't burn with furious resistance. Traces of sorrow were replaced with forgiveness. The immortal notion that was her namesake filled her eyes as she glimpsed the distant shore and heard the funeral parade… Or did she see her homeland, echoing the stories of forgotten ancestors? Even in the face of despair and certain death, one thing could never die or be taken. The answer came to him as gently as a dream, without thought or effort.

_Hope… You hope._

His grip loosened and released her. Once she'd fled the cave, coughing and wheezing, he realized he'd been crying.

"You're losin' it, old man," he said, scarcely recognizing his own voice. "You're losin' it…"

_Age 57  
>3099 A.D.<em>

"I've got bad news and more bad news," said Bishop, "Which do you wanna hear first?"

Shard smiled bitterly and picked up one of the apples he'd carelessly tossed on the table. Cleaning the skin with her sleeve, she said, "More apples?"

"More apples."

"So what's the good news?" She bit into the fruit and he felt suddenly sick.

Pushing his share away, he said: "The Guillotine's running out of energy. Every time we piggy-back on Cable's jump, it takes more and more time to catch up. The old bastard must know that somehow. That's why he's been jumping further and more often lately… Trying to shake us."

"No, the reason he jumped last time had nothing to do with us. He thought we were a hundred years off. But he left anyway because Hope met a boy her age… Apparently, he doesn't think it's good for her to have friends."

"How do you know?"

"The girl's _lonely_, Bish. The Witness was a real ass, but at least he never tried to kill our friends."

"You _talked_ to her? What if she figures out who you are?"

"Non-sense," Shard dismissed his concerns. "There's no way she'd talk to Cable about me after he made her leave her boyfriend a thousand years in the past… Besides, who else is gonna teach her Xavier's philosophy? Right now, we need to focus on the Guillotine. Do you know how Forge powered it?"

"It was some sort of omnipresent energy source that he took for granted would always exist… Like the sun or wind."

She set down her 'supper' and sighed: "He should've used _apples_."

Bishop laughed wryly.

They were caught in a maze without end, and every path seemed to only lead them further into the abyss.

That night, while they slept, Cable attacked. It marked the first time he'd offensively fought them – if one considered shooting a sleeping target a "_fight_". He was delivering a message: Hope is off-limits. Like all their past battles, this one ended in a stalemate, but Cable lost something precious: the ability to travel _back_ in the time stream. Trapped in the future, Hope couldn't condemn millions to death.

"Don't be stupid," Shard scolded, "All he's got to do is repair his arm!"

"_I'm_ stupid? _I_ wasn't the one cozyin' up to our family's murderer!"

"No, _you_ were the one who had the shot and didn't take it!"

He felt the anger building up and forced his mouth to remain shut. After a moment of silence, Shard's temper cooled, too, and they re-focused.

"They'll jump again soon," she said, "No doubt about that."

"We don't have enough juice to follow'm," Bishop gripped the Guillotine cuff on his arm. "We don't even have enough to get to return to _our_ time."

"You _want_ to go back?"

"No… Everyone I know has been dead or not born for over half my life. I don't belong anywhere."

"If that's true, what are you fighting for?" She asked.

Before he could answer, the ground shook beneath them. Bishop knew time was folding together like a paper fan. Cable was about to step over days and years the way men step over molecules in the sand. In a few moments, the stream would correct itself, smoothing away Cable's footprints. Bishop and Shard had to act quickly.

"_Do it!"_ Shard shouted, grabbing his forearm.

"We-"

"We'll make it! Trust me!"

Bishop activated the device and they propelled through the tunnel left in Cable's wake. He faded further and further away while the closing end rushed towards them. Once it caught up, they'd be stranded in the wrong time.

Bishop turned to Shard, hoping for a miracle, and noticed that she looked… _fuzzy_.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"You need an omnipresent energy to power that thing. Here, I can give you what you need."

"You can't! You don't even know if it'll work!"

"I can, brother," she replied serenely. "Why do you think the Witness created me this way? I don't _want_ to change states, but I will. It's my gift to Luc and Raven and the twins… And to _you_. I hope you find what you're looking for."

The blurry neon fusion that had once been her natural weapon consumed her and then melted into the narrow walls of time. Bishop panicked, thinking her sacrifice had been in vain. The enclosing wall finally reached him, but didn't expel him like he expected. Instead, he launched off like a bullet from the barrel. He reached Cable so quickly that he almost passed him, and burst out of the stream so powerfully that he lost his footing.

_Age 62  
>12069 F.D.<em>

At last, Cable had run out of time.

The earth had become nearly inhospitable, cracking open and falling from its axis. Bishop was certain the planet was either plummeting into the sun or into outer space – possibly both. It was only a matter of time before it was flung out of the gravitational pull of the sun or pulled into its fiery embrace. The surviving natives had fled long ago. Those left behind had either perished or interbred with the alien species abandoned here for crimes against their own.

Any creature left topside had turned to bleached bone and dust. Life was hidden below the surface: every creature a man-sized insect living in dark, damp tunnels. There were dozens of these so-called cities, possibly hundreds, but they existed independently. Most inhabitants never knew of anything outside their recycled cells. They knew only of crushingly difficult work for the promise (often unfulfilled) of food. But leaving meant certain death. The cities were controlled by the most ruthless beasts that refused access to anyone who might consume more than they contributed. And everyone was a consumer. Traders were well-known henchmen for the tyrants, making infiltration impossible.

Amazingly, Bishop was still able to find work.

"No! Please, no!" The creature struggled from Bishop's grasp as he drug it from his cart. It's hind legs dug long, deep tracks in it's efforts. "They'll kill me!"

"You're already dead," Bishop replied without meeting it's beady eyes.

The "city" didn't look like much from the surface. Only the decapitated head of a sentinel marked it's entrance.

Bishop banged on the barred eyeball and after several minutes, one of the creature's kin appeared.

"I've retrieved the criminal," he said. "Now hand over the bounty."

After some intense negotiation, Bishop was granted access. They descended into the darkness, the creature pressing close as the hungry mob closed in. Thousands of wispy antennae wetted their appetite on his desperation. Some dared to sample his flesh with their long, soft tongues, but their fury was held in check by fear of their alpha.

The warden took custody of the criminal and, without even the courtesy of a sentence, threw him to the crowd. A hideous and blessedly brief cry pierced the darkness before the vocal cords were ripped from its belly.

Bishop turned away in disgust. He could hear it's exoskeleton cracking open and it's hive sucking out it's blood and entrails.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he noticed the warden was the largest breed of his species with antennae so long they doubled back over his body. A black cavern peered out from where his left eye should've been, and flesh around the socket was also missing. This was an unusual wound considering these things had neither fangs nor claws. When it tried to present Bishop with his ration, he refused.

"I didn't come for the _cuisine_, I came to _trade goods_. Now which one of you ugly bastards runs this ship?"

"What could you _possibly_ have of value?"

"I bet your alpha's _half your size_," Bishop hissed. "Bet she's gave you that _scar_, too."

"Well… I _have_ been watching my figure," Cable grumbled.

He'd crept in behind Bishop, blending in with the mass of bodies. This shouldn't have been so easily accomplished: either Bishop was losing his edge or Cable was losing his humanity. In the unlit cave, Cable's left eye glowed menacingly, and Bishop could make out the dust which had settled on his snowy hair. They were two old men, locked in a loveless marriage; prisoners chained together by fate.

A woman screamed, _"Why won't you just die?"_

Bishop was blown away by an energy blast much like his own.

The herd scattered like roaches, but Hope continued firing. Beautiful pink and blue rays illuminated the dismembered limbs accompanying the explosion of puss filled bodies. The creatures were torn between fear of destruction and desire for the precious meat of their fallen comrades.

"Solider!" Cable shouted. "Hold your fire!"

The make-shift city groaned a warning, which Cable translated.

"You'll bring this whole damned place down on us!"

"_NO!"_ She hollered. "No more running!"

However, she'd stopped firing. Bishop had been absorbing the energy blasts, rendering them useless, and perhaps she'd only just realized this. He'd intended to build the energy and return it to her, but now with several tons of steel teetering dangerously above his head, he was forced to hold it. Like juggling a dozen eggs, this task required all his effort. He couldn't see Hope through the chaos even if he had taken a shot.

Something landed on his forearm and, after a moment, he realized it was a woman's hand.

Twisting the Guillotine, Hope's left eye gleamed as she copied Cable's telekinesis to steal Bishop's weapon. Then her left fist landed beneath his ribs, hitting him with Cable's time key. Her green eyes were all he could see for the length of a heartbeat that spanned an eternity. She would be the last person to see him alive.

He hoped he'd showed no fear.

Eons from everything he knew, Bishop had nothing but time to relive his failures.

He had spent more of his life with Cable and Hope than he had with his own family. He was with Hope on the night of her birth, and he watched her grow into a ruthless hunter. He knew her better than she knew herself, for only he knew what she was truly capable of. He knew she cared little for Cable, which was ironic because she could love no one else. Bishop was the only other constant figure in her life, and she'd delivered him a slow death. For all his oaths to stop her ascension no matter the cost, he could never end her life. Why: he didn't know. He could only _wish_ her dead, but he could never abandon his quest to prevent her future, either. He was the last reminder of what she had done – _would_ do. The lives lost, the planet destroyed, the species exterminated – were all personified in Bishop. He would never abandon her. Doing so would condemn millions of others to share Bishop's fate.

He understood his place now. He wasn't the victim that fate had tried to make him, nor was he the valiant warrior he'd tried to make himself. He was a disciple of Xavier's pacifist principles. _His last X-Man._

Did she fear him? Did she know that Bishop had shaped her life as much as Cable had? In a strange way, Bishop protected her back while Cable cleared a path for her. Together, they moved her towards her destiny.

For this, he deserved to perish.

_Present_

The shuttle was dimly lit with only the sounds of Shi'ar machinery and soft breaths to fill the silence. Aliyah was anxious: her squared shoulders and tight jaw were a dead give-away, although she didn't work to mask her emotions. After Bishop stabilized, she planted herself at his side. Her eyes never left his face, and her breath had grown shallow and weak – like his.

It made Arcadian nervous.

Since his words didn't flow like soothing honey, as his father's did, Arcadian kept quiet. He distracted himself with a silver coin, letting it flip through his fingers in a flawless wave. Eventually, the glint caught Aliyah's eye, and they both watched in silence.

"Teach me how to do that," she finally said.

He gave her the coin and sat beside her. "Keep your wrist loose… _Non_, y' keep tensin' your fingers…" His fingers reached for hers, meant to instruct more clearly than he could with his words. The gesture startled her, and the coin dropped to the floor like shattering glass.

Suddenly, he felt very foolish. The smell of her breath made him blush, which she couldn't miss beneath his fair complexion.

To distract her, he teased: "Okay, maybe y' missed de point. Keep it _off_ de floor."

She picked it up and shot it back at him so quickly that he jumped. It struck his chest with no permanent damage. Smiling proudly, she said, "What I lack in dexterity, I make up for in _strength_."

"Would y' rather arm wrestle?"

Her smiled died and her brown eyes drifted back to Bishop.

Silence had been a third companion on their way, and once more settled down with them. It made him nervous at first. He lived with a flock of siblings in a narrow European house, and like a litter of kittens thrown in a box, they ceaselessly climbed and shouted over each other. Aliyah, on the other hand, had grown up in the vast emptiness of outer space, and reflected the infinite stillness of the night sky and distant stars. His vitality must've been as jarring to her as her tranquility was to him.

"Thanks for coming with me…" She said, still watching her father. "I know what you gave up. I hope it hasn't been for nothing. Your family… Why would you do that?"

"My family's never been whole," he answered softly. "M' momma died on M-Day and m' papa went mad. After dat, me an' m' brother and m' sisters were supposed t' be like everyone else. We were damn-near orphans, but at least we were _normal_. M' old man said dat was de best thing he could've given us – was a different path t' walk than the one he did. He was right, too. I watched too many people put themselves in an early grave, tryin' t' fix what wasn't broken… See, mutants believed dey were de next evolutionary step. We're really dead ends caused by microwaves and global warming. Dey couldn't accept it. Found a way to force everyone's genes to mutate. It was disgusting. Those who fought back – if you can call it dat – were annihilated in de Six-Second War."

His eyes, which had been distant and hidden as if possessed, suddenly sparked with intense fanaticism and hooked into Aliyah's soul.

"Hope was de first mutant born after M-Day. Somethin' from nothin' so everyone said she was de _messiah_. Then she created a world in her image, so dey said she was a _god_. Committin' _genocide_ should've been a big wake-up call, but people fear what dey don't understand. Some say she can't be killed… _I_ say she's a murderess playin' god, spitting on m' mother's sacrifice and makin' my baby sister suffer with a mutation that's gonna kill her… All we need to take her down is someone who understands her and ain't afraid."

"Hate to remind you," Aliyah snapped, "But Bishop tried that. He failed. Now the Shi'ar need him, so find someone else to fight your battles."

"If it weren't for me, he'd be dead. He _owes_ me."

"He owes you _nothing_! He _warned_ you-"

"He warned my _parents_."

"-but you ignored him!"

"He called m' father a traitor. A killer! Would _you_ have listened to him?"

She stood without an answer, and Arcadian realized how angry he'd become. They'd spent months as polite roommates, never demanding or sharing anything. He imagined a friendship between them the same way an insane man imagines intangible objects with personalities, but he'd refrained from attempting to create a connection for fear of shattering the possibility of it. Now, suddenly, they were adversaries. He realized fighting her was pointless because he cared for her and she cared nothing for him.

Silence returned in heavy, pregnant waves, which Arcadian tried to will away.

Then a voice, weak and scratchy, rose from the bed.

"_LeBeau… Luc LeBeau…"_

Bishop was impossibly weak but alive. Like a man returned from the grave, he tested the sensation of speaking. He'd survived in an inhospitable world, but the poison lingered in him: threatening to blind and suffocate him.

Stunningly, this was the same man that Arcadian's father spoke of so highly. Bishop was a giant in size and legend – this man was very mortal. He both loved and hated Gambit, and Arcadian knew if his father could still feel, he'd return the sentiment. Gambit often said that Bishop couldn't be dead because he hadn't yet been born; they would see each other again; and Gambit still had a chance to set things right. Of course, he also claimed that his late wife lived in a tea kettle. He was a difficult man to decipher.

Now that one of his prophecies had come true, Arcadian wanted to drag Bishop into battle. He wanted to kill the Summers girl and save his family from the fate Bishop warned about. Instead, he forced himself to be patient.

"Bishop… You need to rest."

"When I'm dead…" he wheezed. He tried to lift his head and failed. A sickly cough rattled the toxins in his chest. "Which shouldn't be much longer…"

Arcadian smiled. "Because of the time line continuum, we can't go back t' de beginning. It'll be safest t' wait till Cable's dead."

"Dead?"

"Not long after he dumped you out here."

"Father, _please_," Aliyah begged, "Don't do this! You've given the Terrans enough!"

For a long time, he looked at her as if her voice had sent his spirit away. Finally, he said, "Deathbird..?"

"My mother. Yes."

"Sorry," he rasped, "I've gotta see this through."

It was tempting to walk away from this mission and admit defeat. But he never was the sort of man to leave the hard work to others. In his view, he'd been given another chance for a reason.

.

_The End_


End file.
